A Baby for Baker Street
by JJJJ12
Summary: Sequel to The Case of the Domesticated Detective. Sherlock Holmes makes the extraordinary, life-changing decision to become a father. However, the detective makes things infinitely more difficult when he asks Molly Hooper to have his baby. Like most moments in Sherlock's life, the next nine months will be anything but dull.
1. The Epiphany

It had been a troubling week for Sherlock Holmes. Normally, it was his preference to blame anything cumbersome on those around him. Mycroft and his self-righteous self was normally blamed for the rain. Mrs. Hudson for the lack of biscuits. John for the absence of a case.

Given his foul mood, he really, truly wanted to blame someone for his low spirits. Anyone would have done. Anderson, Lestrade, Donovan, hell, even the postman who always called him Sheldon would do. But, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't fault anyone for the feelings running through his oversensitive nerves.

 _Probably too much sugar from when the children were here._

Ah, yes, the children. Only a week had passed since he had babysat with Molly, spending the weekend with his god-daughter Rosamund and John's girlfriend's eight-year-old son. In the quiet hours at Baker Street since, Sherlock had receded more times into his mind palace then he ever had before. He recounted and revisited every bloody minute of the weekend, from the endless superhero films, to the shared ice cream, to the football match, to even John's cruel gift of rubbish macarons.

He had come to a conclusion that Sunday afternoon, sitting in his chair, staring out the window as the sun set over the city.

He wanted a child.

Sherlock tensed, although continued his movements along the pavement. The thought still gave him heart palpitations. In fact, since that realization, he had spent the week trying to sway his own mind.

It was ludicrous, really. Sherlock couldn't have a hole in his chest. He was nearing his forties, doing a job he loved, living in a city he called home, and had his dearest friends around him. What more could he need from life?

But someone seemed to disagree. For the past week, he woke every morning with a pillow clutched to his chest, the memory of a dream-like child with big eyes and messy hair on his mind. And, for some bizarre reason, every time he left Baker Street, he passed a disproportionate number of children, especially babies.

Always cute, smiley little things, with big red cheeks and tiny little fingers. Their eyes always managed to find Sherlock, their smiles breaking through the crowd to squeeze at his heart and make his hands shake. And, as things went, as he currently turned the corner, he had to jump to the side to avoid colliding with a woman and a pram.

He glanced down at the opening, his stare meeting the wide-eyed, green gaze of a child with a messy mop of red hair on her head. He swallowed and couldn't help but wave as he righted his balance. The child giggled and waved back to him, going so far as to turn her head to watch Sherlock, even as her mother pushed her away.

As the child disappeared from his view, he sighed and ran a shaky hand through his curls.

 _Bugger._

-x-x-x-

Whenever Sherlock had a case, he functioned a very particular way. Baker Street shifted from a place to sleep and run experiments to an expertly organized office. His back wall would frequently turn into a case map, with photos, files, and articles pinned to every open inch, his frantic scribbling moving from one page to the next.

So, unaware of how to treat his current predicament, he did what he knew best. He stood in front of the wall, his hands on his hips, admiring his work. Clad in his usual clothes and a dressing gown, he was currently in the brainstorming phase of his new case.

 _A Baby for Baker Street._

 _Oh, yes. That will do. John never lets me pick the case names._

He cleared his throat and studied the display on the wall, the crisp photographs and white pages in stark contrast to his dark wallpaper. He currently had five possible next steps, all with different protocols and opportunities for adding a child into his life.

Before he could contemplate his options, his attention was drawn to the opening of the flat door. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he returned to his viewing.

"John. I thought it was your day off. Weren't you spending it with Lydia?" Sherlock asked, retrieving a pen from his desk.

His best mate pulled his jacket off and made a noise of agreement. "She had to work but we had lunch earlier. I was out so I thought I would drop by and say hello."

Sherlock ran another hand through his hair and let his eyes jump from option to option. "I see."

He ignored John's footsteps and continued to think, his eyes jumping frantically from photo to photo. However, that was until John's affronted voice filled the room.

"Sherlock! Why in god's name is there a photo of Lydia and Alfie on your wall?" John studied the familiar photo before glancing at the one beside it, "And a photo of the Queen Mother?" His eyes drifted to the next, "Or a photo—"

Sherlock groaned and turned to his friend. "Isn't it obvious?" He retorted, waving his hands, "Must you be so dull?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Really lost for this one, mate. But it's not bloody normal for you to have a photo on my girlfriend on your wall! Where did you even get it from?"

"Facebook."

His best mate shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "Sherlock. I'm going to need you to explain what's going on here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to the wall. "It's quite simple. I have a new case."

John narrowed his eyes. "And how exactly is Lydia involved?

"She isn't. Not directly. She represents an opportunity."

"Would you just—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. "I've decided to have a child. I'm currently evaluating my next step."

Instead of responding, John's mouth simply fell open. He blinked a few times and continued to watch his best mate but was unable to respond.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved towards the photos, mimicking the movements of a retail worker in a showroom. "Use your brain, John. I have five opportunities to become a father."

He approached the first photo, one of the Queen Mother. He pointed and cleared his throat. "The first and most obvious option is to have a child through normal reproduction with a woman."

He took a few steps to the right and pointed to a photo of a young girl with big red hair, an image that John immediately recognized as Annie, the orphan from the musical. Sherlock clasped his hands together. "The second option would be to adopt, although preferably a child that does not sing and dance."

Sherlock took another few steps and stopped beside the photo of Lydia and Alfie, the one that had incensed John to begin with. "My third option would be to simply begin a relationship with a woman who is already a mother, thus allowing me to forgo the work of accumulating the child. However, I admit, the prospect of this one seems slim."

He cleared his throat and moved to the next photo. Unlike the previous ones, the image was of a happy Irish Wolfhound puppy. "I have included the possibility of getting a dog. While it would not be the same as having a child, I figured it could be a possible alternative, although again, it seems less fulfilling."

And then, finally, he stopped in front of the final photo, an image of a young boy with messy dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a knowing smile. John blinked a few times, clearly recognizing the face. Sherlock smirked.

"Indeed, this is a photo of me at three years old. My final option, although unfortunately the most unrealistic one, would be reproducing independently."

John finally managed to squeak out a question. "Reproducing independently?"

"Well, yes. I have a few theories. After eating too much, using mitosis to split into two organisms. Or, perhaps, like a butterfly, forming a chrysalis. Or genetic cloning."

John blinked. "You're barking mad, Sherlock."

The detective rolled his eyes. "I know these aren't scientifically possible. _Yet_. But, I thought it would be irresponsible as a scientist to leave them off the list of options."

At the mention of the options, John finally awoke from his mental stupor. He approached Sherlock. "Mate, let's chat, okay? If you're feeling a bit… Distant, or sad, we can work through it. You don't have to—"

Sherlock scoffed and waved his hands, going back to evaluating his options. He quickly interrupted John. "I thought you would be delighted by my decision. I assumed you would want me to, as Mrs. Hudson always recommends, 'settle down'."

John rubbed at his temples, unbelieving of the conversation he was having with Sherlock. "Mate, look, you need to understand what you're suggesting! A baby! I have one. I know what it's like. And yeah, it's rewarding, but it's bloody hard too!" He cursed and began to pace, "And with you Sherlock, I can never tell if you're being serious about this! This is the commitment of all commitments!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I understand what a baby entails. It's another human being that needs to be nurtured, guided, and loved."

"And since when have any of those things been something you're good at?"

The detective frowned. "Look, I understand that I seem like an unlikely candidate to want to become a father, but lately the urge is overwhelming. It's all I can thing about."

John shook his head. "You're talking about taking care of a child for the next eighteen years, Sherlock. A living, breathing, child. Your entire life will change."

"I can deal with changes, John. I'm an adult."

John cursed. "No, mate, you don't understand! How you live now won't cut it! You go days without eating and sleeping. You'll disappear for cases. You put yourself in danger. You can't do that with a child."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "I'm aware. I see how your availability has become more selective since Rosie. That will be doable. I will never accept cases below a six."

"Yeah? And what happens when another case needs you to start using? You think you can muck your life up with a baby in the mix?" His words were harsh.

"I'm not using now," Sherlock began, watching his friend carefully, "and I haven't in more than a year. I never will again. Do not use my past against me, John. We all make mistakes."

John shook his head. "Yeah, and who will watch the baby when we're on a case? Most of your options pose you as a single father. You can't rely on Mrs. Hudson to read your kid to sleep every night."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "There are many options. I presume my parents would move closer to London to be near the child. I could always hire a nanny."

"This is mad, Sherlock. You're not ready for a child." He continued to pace, waving his hands as he spoke, "You always do this! You get an idea and then you just don't abandon it! Why in god's name do you suddenly even want a kid?"

"Why? This past weekend. With Molly and the kids, things just felt… right." Sherlock sighed and rubbed at his neck, "I felt fulfilled in a way I never had before. I was so happy… My face hurt when the children left. I smile so little that a few days with them had actually made me sore."

John frowned and considered his friend's words. "I get it, Sherlock. I do. But taking care of someone else's kids for a few days is nothing like raising a baby. There will be screaming, and crying, and dirty diapers, and temper tantrums, and that's all before the kid is two. Then you have to teach them right from wrong, hold them when they get scared, kiss their scrapes, and read them to sleep. That's even before they start to speak."

Sherlock crossed his arms and dropped to his seat, refusing to meet John's gaze. "I actually thought you'd be supportive of my desire. You of all people. My best mate. A father. I expected this response from Mycroft. Lestrade. Even my parents. But never you."

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sherlock, I'm just concerned that you're doing this for the wrong—"

"John?"

He sighed and moved to his old chair, dropping into the seat to face Sherlock. "Yes?"

"Is Rosie the best thing to ever happen to you?"

John nodded. "Yes. Of course, she is. She's the most important thing in the world to me."

"Then why should I be denied the same sort of happiness?"

John frowned and dropped his head to his hands. He cursed. "You're serious about this? You want to be a father?"

Sherlock nodded, and to John's surprise, smiled. "I do. It's the only thing I've been certain of in a long time."

The shorter man groaned. "Alright, then. I guess we should go over your options."

Both men gazed back at the case map.

-x-x-x-

 _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

 _Date: February 6, 2019_

 _A Baby for Baker Street_

 _I expect I'll be working on this entry for a very long time. Say, nine months at least? I visited Sherlock this afternoon and received some of the most shocking news of my life. Sherlock wants to be a father. He wants to have a baby._

 _Initially, I assumed he was pulling my leg or conducting some ridiculous experiment. Yet, after talking to him, I think his desire is genuine. Babysitting Rosie and Alfie seemed to knock a switch on inside of him. But, I'm still worried about him. I don't think he's entirely clear with what he wants._

 _He's told me that he wants a baby. I believe him. I do. But I think what he really wants is a baby with Molly._

 _I think their weekend—_

John quickly shut his laptop at the sound of Sherlock's footsteps reentering the room. He watched as his best friend ventured into the kitchen and began digging around in the cupboards for a snack. After their conversation earlier in the day, John left to pick up Rosie and finish the rest of his errands. However, they had journeyed back to Baker Street for dinner. Rosie was now in Mrs. Hudson's flat, and John had taken to entertaining himself while Sherlock took what appeared to be a rather vicious call with Mycroft.

Padding back into the sitting room, Sherlock dropped to his chair, a Jaffa cake between his lips. He took a bite and looked to John. "What are you writing?"

John tucked his laptop back into his bag. "Just an email to a colleague."

Sherlock hummed, and took another bite, dropping the question even if he didn't believe his best mate. "Mycroft is such a twit. He's unhappy with how we handled the Canterbury case. Apparently, the bloke had ties to the leader of the Labour Party," Sherlock finished the biscuit and grabbed another, "Why that's our problem is beyond me."

"I see. And what's Mycroft been up to these days? I haven't seen him around here in a long while," John studied his best mate, amused by the entire day.

Sherlock shrugged. "Licking his wounds, I presume. I believe he was passed over for a promotion he wanted. It would certainly explain his awful attitude."

"Promotion? Is there any room left on the ladder for Mycroft to climb?"

"Mhm. Knighthood? He always did like showing off." Sherlock tucked the box away and stretched, "Enough of this. Let's chat before Mrs. Hudson returns Rosie."

John cleared his throat and glanced at Sherlock's bizarre case map before turning to the man himself. "Right. Let's chat."

Sherlock sighed and propped his hands under his chin in his normal, prayer-like thought pose. "Yes, well, unfortunately independent reproduction seems to be off the table for now. Such a shame."

John blinked a few times. "Right. Such a shame. And the dog?"

He waved his hands. "That's more of a backup."

"I see. So, you have three options."

Sherlock made a noise of agreement. "Hypothetically, yes. However, as the only woman around my age with a child that I interact with is your girlfriend, and that I have no desire to entertain a relationship with the majority of the city, I feel I only have two true options."

John nodded. "Right. So, it's adoption or the old-fashioned way. Although, to be frank Sherlock, I don't expect the system to allow someone like you to adopt a child."

He scoffed. "Someone like me?"

"You have a history of using drugs, live alone, are unmarried, and have a job that puts you in danger. That's not normally the type of person they're looking for to adopt a child," John explained.

Sherlock grumbled. "I suppose. Admittedly, the prospect of the child sharing my DNA was certainly my preference."

"Then it sounds like you made your decision, mate. What next?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, now avoiding John's gaze. "I need to look into finding an egg donor that fits my gene and intellect requirements, and then I will find a surrogate to carry our baby."

John blinked a few times. "Well, yeah, sure, but what about—"

The detective jumped to his feet. "I need to get to work on Punnett squares. I would prefer the child to have—"

John cursed. "Sherlock, mate, why aren't you considering—"

Sherlock interrupted him again. "Mycroft is going to conduct endless background tests on the donor, so of course that will be a nightmare, but—"

John cursed and stood up. "Why are you—"

"I wonder what surrogacy rates are in London. The regulations must—"

John finally had enough. "SHERLOCK!"

The detective finally stopped talking. He swallowed and looked to John. "Yes?"

John cursed. "What are you doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know there's a simpler option that makes more sense."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I don't—"

John rolled his eyes. "Stop talking, Sherlock. Why aren't you considering asking Molly?"

At her name, Sherlock tensed. "Anonymity seems less… messy."

"But that's not what you want, is it? You don't want anonymity. You want to have a child with Molly. That's why this weekend changed your mind to begin with."

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned away. "That's not true—"

"Sherlock—"

The detective cursed. "Alright. I concede that yes, if everything were up to me, I would have a child with Molly. Not only would it logistically be easier, but she is the ideal candidate to mother my child."

"That's not the only reason why."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at?"

"You feel for her, Sherlock. You'd have to be a moron not to see that."

Before Sherlock could respond, Mrs. Hudson strolled in, a giggling Rosie in her arms. She smiled at the two men. "Good evening, boys! I just came to drop Rosie off. I'm off to bed." With a quick kiss on both of their cheeks, she set Rosie down and disappeared.

John pinched his nose and blew out a breath. "Sherlock, you know what the answer to this is. Don't take the easy way out. You will regret it."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down to Rosie. His goddaughter was playing with her shoelaces, her blonde hair done up in neat pleats. She met his gaze and giggled, offering him a bright smile. Sherlock swallowed, amazed by how much the little girl looked like Mary. Or, rather, a perfect blend of her parents. She had the striking blue eyes and pouty lips of John, and the shiny blonde hair and sharp nose of Mary. She had even begun to pick up John's mannerisms. She shared the same incredulous looks and silly little run of her father. And, even without Mary, she shared her mother's fiery personality.

He gulped, again remembering the little boy of his dreams—curly dark hair, big brown eyes, a small, slightly upturned nose, a charming smile…

 _Bugger._

He turned to John. "How does one ask a woman to have their child?"

John, who had been busy getting Rosie into her coat, stopped his movements. He blinked a few times, registering Sherlock's words.

"You finally figured out what you want?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why you want that?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Not quite."

John made a noise of acknowledgement. "Well, since you're the genius, I reckon you figure that out before you ask Molly if you can knock her up."

"Yes, yes, very well. I wish I had her family history. Then I could determine our genotypes and include them in my request."

"And why would that get her to say yes?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If she were passionate about her child not having freckles or having blue eyes, it would only help our case."

John sighed. "Mate, give yourself some time. I need you to remember what you're asking." He picked Rosie up and looked to him, "Remember how I said this was a lifetime commitment for you?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is a lifetime commitment for her too. So… Don't be Sherlock when you ask."

He grumbled. "Right. Goodnight then." He looked at Rosie and smiled, "Goodnight, Rosie."

She grinned and gasped. "Uncie Sherwock, I hab something for chu." She reached into her sparkly bag and pulled out a white sheet of paper, covered in colorful scribbles. She smiled.

Sherlock swallowed and took the art. He glanced down at the paper, admiring the fine scribbles and vibrant colors. But, even amid the lines and shading, he could very clearly identify four outlines of people. He looked to Rosie.

She giggled. "It's you, Auntie Molly, me, and Ow-fee."

Sherlock swallowed. "Thank you, Rosie. I'll cherish this forever."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and stepped back. He looked to John. "Thank you. I have a lot to figure out."

John snorted. "That's the understatement of the century, mate. Get some sleep, do some research, and be smart."

With that, the Watsons disappeared out the door. Sherlock glanced down at the photo and couldn't help but smile. He strolled back into the living room and began to remove his case map, satisfied with his choice (although, he did keep the photo of the Irish Wolfhound, as that was secretly still something he very much wanted, baby or not). On his empty wall, he taped Rosie's photo, as well as a photo of him and Molly from Rosie's baptism that he had received as a Christmas gift.

He glanced at the three photos, ignoring the funny little flip inside his stomach.

Molly, a baby, and a dog.

What more could he ask for?

 _Well, her agreement for starters._


	2. Rocket Man

Molly had been hard at work on Tuesday afternoon, her hands deep within a fresh cadaver. She was enjoying the new Ed Sheeran song playing on her speakers, her lunch with Meena at that new Indian restaurant down the street had been delicious, and her new trainers, despite her concerns, were in fact comfortable enough to wear to work.

So, she was in rather good spirits as she worked on Mr. Richmond. Although, she was still counting down the hours until she could return home—she had Thai leftovers, recordings of _Grey's Anatomy_ , and Toby to look forward to. And as much as she loved her job, those things would always be more appealing than a body on a slab.

But as her playlist changed to an Elton John song that reminded her of being a little girl, dancing with her father at her cousin's wedding, her happy mood took a dive. And when Sherlock strolled into the lab, his coat billowing behind him, it only served to dampen her spirits further. Like most of his visits, he appeared with his face stuck in his mobile, typing away as if his life depended on it.

Molly set her tool down and pulled her gloves off. She turned to Sherlock. "Hiya, Sherlock. You have something for me to look at?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and shoved his mobile into his pocket. "No, not at the moment. Things have been rather slow since I caught that serial killer last week."

Molly giggled. "Ah, yes. The Marylebone Murders."

He hummed in agreement. "Someone has been following John's blog." He dropped to his usual stool, but kept his gaze focused on Molly.

After quickly washing her hands, she turned to face Sherlock, drying them with a hospital-issued towel. She nodded. "They're interesting. A new perspective too. John has a different take on your cases than you do."

"Perhaps." Sherlock glanced around the lab, his leg bouncing anxiously, "I see you tried that new Indian restaurant."

Molly quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? Did you deduce a stain on my shirt or something?"

He sighed and shifted in his seat. "No. You simply have a takeaway menu tucked in your purse. And the lab smells like curry, even over the formaldehyde."

She bit her lip. "Right. Anyways, Sherlock, I have a few more things to do before I clock out. Did you need something or…?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes. I… I would like you to come to Baker Street tonight, Molly."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Tonight? I have plans to—"

Sherlock sighed. "Eat leftovers and watch telly. I reckon you can delay those 'plans'. Please arrive at seven. I will provide dinner." Without giving her a chance to respond, he rose to his feet and strolled out, his heart hammering in his chest.

Molly, on the other hand, sighed and strolled back to Mr. Richmond, quickly slipping her hands into another pair of rubber gloves. Three more hours of work and then her evening would be spent with Sherlock.

Pad Thai and DeLuca would have to wait.

-x-x-x-

 _She's arriving at seven. – SH_

 _I promised dinner. Angelo's or chips? – SH_

 _Do I just come out with it? I made a slideshow on PowerPoint. Is that too much? – SH_

 _Shall I offer wine? Is that presumptuous? Will she think I'm trying to loosen her up? – SH_

 _Why aren't you responding to me? – SH_

 _John. I need an answer. – SH_

 _John. – SH_

 _JOHN. – SH_

 _Fine. Don't be surprised when you're not named the godfather. – SH_

-x-x-x-

No thanks to John, Sherlock had straightened up the flat in preparation for Molly's arrival. He was wearing a crisp, pale yellow shirt and a pair of black trousers, his hair neatly combed and tamed. He had read online that the pale, yellow fed into women's maternal instincts and hoped that the color would encourage a response in Molly. It was likely a stretch, but he was willing to try.

Plus, he knew yellow was one of her favorite colors. And earlier, he had picked up food from Angelo's, knowing Molly fancied their lasagna. He had gone back and forth on the prospect of offering alcohol, but eventually settled on the leftover juice from their babysitting weekend that was in his fridge.

He was desperate to get rid of some of that food. He had eaten far too many tangerines and dinosaur shaped chewy fruit snacks since the kids had left.

And even with the table set, he found he couldn't sit still. He paced about the flat, running over the words and arguments he could present to Molly. While he knew that Molly wanted to settle down and have a family, he was concerned that his alternative would not fit her idealized plan.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door. Sherlock immediately opened it, coming face to face with a rather tired Molly. She had gone home and clearly showered, evident by her still damp hair and make-up free face. She had changed into a pair of worn jeans and a black jumper, her large winter coat over the ensemble. As she spoke, she started to untie her scarf.

"Hi, Sherlock. It smells good in here." She hung her coat and scarf up before slipping out of her boots. She glanced at the man and quirked an eyebrow.

Sherlock noticed her reaction. "Yes?"

"You're wearing yellow."

He cleared his throat. "Well, yes. Is that a problem?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "I suppose not. I just… Wasn't expecting it."

He nodded. "I see. Do you like it?"

She bit her lip. "Well, actually…" She cleared her throat and strolled further into the flat, no longer looking at the man, "I think it sort of washes you out. You know, the pale color with your complexion. And, you look like a bumblebee."

Sherlock self-consciously dropped his gaze to his shirt. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."

Molly nodded and dropped into a seat at the table. "It doesn't really matter. My mum always said to wear what you liked and to let fashion be damned." She glanced down at her multi-colored socks and smiled, "Hence my style."

Sherlock just nodded and sat across from her. "I see. I ordered you lasagna and garlic bread."

Molly had already begun digging into the container. "Perfect. I'm starving."

The two began to eat in silence, washing down their takeaway pasta with whatever store brand, organic juice with cartoon characters Molly had purchased the previous week. Sherlock thought it was rather fitting that he was dining with child-friendly apple juice, given his intended conversation for the evening.

"So," Molly began, after eating another forkful, "What's up? What do you need from me?"

Sherlock made a face. "Why must I need something from you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, as if you'd just want to 'hang out'. You always need something."

He desperately wanted to argue for the sake of arguing, but given the reason for her invitation, he was in no position to do so. Instead, he cleared his throat and took another sip of juice.

"Alright. I do need something."

"Mhm. Shoot. You need an exorbitant number of toes? Help with a case? Me to clean—"

"Molly."

She stopped her predictions. "Yes?"

"I want to have a baby."

Molly, who had been in the middle of sipping her juice, coughed on the tart liquid. Quickly grabbing a napkin and dabbing the juice from her jumper, she blinked a few times and stared at Sherlock, mouth agape.

"You want to have a baby?" She squeaked out.

He gave her a curt nod. "Yes. Very much so. After much evaluation of my life, I have realized that the one thing I'm missing is a child. I would very much like to be a father."

Molly took a gulp of juice, wishing the liquid was liquor. She certainly needed a drink. "You, Sherlock Holmes, want to have a child?"

"More than anything."

She coughed again. "What do I have to do with this?"

Sherlock sighed and shifted in his seat. Instead of saying anything, he simply gave Molly a look. She stared back at him, brown on blue. After a few moments, the wheels began to turn, an audible gulp filling the silent room.

"You…" Her voice was barely audible, "Want to have a baby with me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes. That's why I invited you over tonight. I wanted to discuss the possibility of us having a child together."

Molly leaned back in her chair and stared at Sherlock, wide-eyed. "Why?"

He sighed. "Well, for many reasons. Obviously, you're logistically the easiest option for me to have a baby. You—"

She shook her head and rose to her feet. "Wow, Sherlock, thank you. I'm thrilled I'm being considered simply because you think my womb is the easiest to access!"

He cursed and rose to his feet. "Let me finish!" He crossed his arms and studied her, "There is no one else in this world I rather have a child with, Molly. You're incredibly smart, exceedingly kind, and are one of the greatest people I know. I respect you so very much. It would be an honor for you to mother my child."

Molly let out a hysterical laugh, unbelieving of the situation. "You can't be serious, Sherlock. Is this a joke? A case? An experiment?"

He frowned. "No. I'm very much serious. I want to have a baby."

She shook her head frantically. "You can't be serious! There's no way you understand what encompasses having a child! It's not just raising a little prodigy to be just like you!"

Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms. "I'm aware of that. And if I weren't before, John certainly screamed about it enough."

Molly took a deep breath. "Sherlock, having a child is a lifelong—"

He scowled. "Commitment, yes. Again, I'm aware. I know what I'm getting myself into and I know what I'm asking of you."

"You want me to have your child."

"Yes."

Molly gulped and began to pace. "Sherlock, I… I have dreams, you know? I want to get married and have children and move to some big house in the suburbs."

He crossed his arms. "You can still do that in the future."

"How? How would any of this work? Did you expect me to pop out a baby and just hand it over to you?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. Why must you and John treat my desires with such…" He glanced away, thinking of the right words, "Antipathy? You act as if all my wishes are purely clinical. If we were to have a child, we would raise it together. Obviously, we would have to sit down and discuss logistics and how we would split the time, but you would be the child's mother. You wouldn't be some nameless donor, Molly."

She swallowed and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling vulnerable under his gaze. "This is a lot to process, Sherlock. You're asking me to make a lifechanging decision."

He sighed. "I'm aware. And I would apologize for causing you any sort of discomfort, but I do believe this arrangement would make you incredibly happy."

Molly took a deep breath. "I… I don't know, Sherlock. I need to think long and hard about this."

Sherlock frowned and nodded. "Shall I share some of my research? If you would kindly provide me some of your family's medical and genetic history, I can run some—"

She shook her head. "Sherlock, stop. I just need…" She swallowed and looked down. "Time? Space? I dunno. I just… I can't."

He frowned. "I thought you'd be thrilled to procreate with me."

Molly let out a humorless laugh. "Yes, of course, because poor little Molly has such an awful love life that if she wants to have a baby, it needs to be with the man she has—" She took a shaky breath, "Used to have feelings for who just wants an egg donor slash surrogate."

"Again, you would not be—"

She sniffled. "I know, Sherlock. I know. Just let me think about this, okay?"

He frowned. "Yes. I understand."

Molly sighed and moved to the entryway. As she slipped into her coat, Sherlock studied her movements. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and cleared his throat.

"May I ask you a question?"

She glanced back to Sherlock, tucking her scarf into place. "Go on then."

"If I weren't me, if I were Greg, or John, or that gay friend you have from university, asking to have a child with you, would your answer be different?" He ignored the cracking in his voice.

Molly frowned and grabbed her handbag, avoiding his gaze. "You want the truth Sherlock?"

"No matter what you tell me, I will deduce the truth. You might as well make it clear."

She met his gaze. "Yeah, if you were someone else, my answer might be different."

He cleared his throat. "Do you not trust me?"

She frowned. "I trust you with my life, Sherlock. I trust that your heart is in the right place. But when it comes to the possibility of me getting hurt, or a child getting hurt, that changes."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I would never deliberately hurt you or the baby."

"Of course not, Sherlock. But consider the child. Consider your life. The dangerous cases, the crazy bad guys, the inability to sit still, your lapse back into drugs—"

He was quick to interrupt her. "I'm clean, Molly. I will never touch anything again. Ever."

She offered him a sad smile. "I'll think about it Sherlock. But please, remember that with a child, your first concern is no longer yourself. It's them. So, while you think you could go after criminals and risk your life to save others, there's going to be a Sherlock Jr sitting at home, laying in his crib, wondering if or when his father will return."

He swallowed. "Molly, I know—"

"No, you don't. Think about what Rosie is going through without her mother."

His face fell. "Molly…"

She sniffled. "I need to think about it. Goodnight, Sherlock."

And then, as if taking a play from his book, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before disappearing out of the flat. Sherlock stared at the closed door, every one of her words running through his head. He wasn't sure what was more disheartening—her willingness to have a child with another man, or the points she made about his lifestyle.

He glanced back at his red scarf, still sitting neatly on the coffee table, the same place it had remained since Alfie had gifted him with the fabric.

Molly was right. His behavior would have to change.

But if anything, one comment stood out above the rest.

 _There's going to be a Sherlock Jr. sitting at home, laying in his crib…_

He swallowed.

He thought she would have said yes.

-x-x-x-

"So, what exactly did she say?"

John and Sherlock were sitting on a park bench, watching Rosie play in a sand pit. The shorter man was enjoying a half-day, and with Lydia at work, his free hours allowed him to catch up with Sherlock, a necessary activity considering his best friend had made his proposal to Molly the evening prior.

Sherlock sighed. "She said she needed time to think about it. Which I expected. But I only prepared for about twenty minutes of deliberation."

John snorted. "You're joking, right? You thought Molly was going to decide to have your baby in only twenty minutes?"

The detective shrugged. "I had officially penciled in an hour, but yes, when I was running my math, I assumed twenty minutes would be sufficient to make a decision after hearing the variables."

"Christ, Sherlock. For a smart bloke, you've got your head up your arse."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Rude. Look, I understand that it's a life-changing decision, but she would likely come to the same conclusions within twenty minutes on why she would or would not want to have a child. Tacking on another twenty-four hours won't make much of a difference."

"Right. Don't bother her. Let her think it through. The last thing she needs is you texting her baby articles or something that pressures her. If anything, it'll just piss her off and make her say no."

Sherlock shook his head. "I will wait until she contacts me."

"Good. On another note, Lydia wants us to take you and Molly to dinner this weekend as a thank you for babysitting the kids. Her best mate owns a restaurant that we thought would work," John yawned and scratched his neck, "Although, given the circumstances, I don't know if we should now."

Sherlock swallowed. "No. Dinner would be perfect. On one condition."

"If you demand we go to Angelo's or just eat chips, I'll smack you."

"No, no. I want the children to come along."

John quirked an eyebrow. "I don't think that's exactly what Lydia had in mind. I think she wanted an adults' evening—"

Sherlock shook his head. "If we bring the children, and Molly sees me interacting with them, she may be more inclined to trust my parental abilities."

John sighed. "If you think that'll help, mate, then yeah, I'll tell Lydia. But I think you just need to put yourself in Molly's shoes. You need to understand why she's hesitant."

The detective glanced away. "I understand why she's hesitant. She has the same concerns about me that I do."

"But you trust yourself to be a good father?"

"More than anything. I would give my life for many things, John. It would be easy to put a child on the top."

Both men glanced at Rosie, enamored with her excited movements.

"I have a lot to learn," Sherlock began, now playing with his hands, "And I surely will not be fantastic when the child first arrives. But I will learn, and I will evolve, and I will be open-minded. Children are challenging but it will be worth it."

And as Rosie exited the sand pit and ran towards them, a glowing smile on her lips and arms full of toys, Sherlock knew he was right.

 _I can do this._

 _Can't I?_

-x-x-x-

 _ **The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**_

 _ **Date: February 12, 2019**_

 _ **A Baby for Baker Street – II**_

 _ **Molly called me yesterday evening. She was beyond upset. Incredibly confused. Overall, she was a mess, and rightfully so. I know Sherlock loves Molly. He's my best mate. And while he's normally unreadable, I can tell when something is amiss. He may not know it yet, but he loves her.**_

 _ **But he's certainly asking a lot of a woman who's been in love with him for some nine years. I wish I could talk some sense into him. Make him see the light. But considering he's accepted he wants a child, I think admitting love would be pushing it.**_

 _ **We'll see how dinner goes.**_

-x-x-x-

Aubergine shirt. Pressed Belstaff. Perfectly ruffled curls.

Sherlock looked his absolute best when he strolled into the restaurant, some new place known for home-made pasta and Italian-British fusion cuisine, whatever _that_ meant. He had tried to debate John on where they were eating, but his best mate reminded him that given it was their treat, he was in no position to argue.

He disagreed, but his energy was better saved for his interactions with Molly. And currently, that's who the table was waiting for. John and Lydia were chatting with Lydia's mate, the owner of the restaurant, while Sherlock remained at the table, watching Alfie and Rosie.

His goddaughter was contently fastened in a high chair, scribbling on a coloring sheet. Alfie, however, was fiddling around with a rather new looking smart phone. Sherlock studied the boy, deducing the gift, but wanted to hear it from the source.

"Alfie, where did you get a mobile?" He asked, watching as the child took obnoxious photos of himself, tongue out.

The boy glanced over at Sherlock, his grin massive. "My daddy bought it for me."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. While he didn't know Lydia that well, he knew her well enough to recognize that this was a development she was not a fan of.

"I see. And how did your mother feel about that?"

Alfie finally set the device down and crossed his arms. "Mummy was angry. She and daddy fought a lot. She said I was too young."

"Well, you're only eight years old. She may have a point."

The boy scoffed and went back to playing with the device. "Charlie, Eoin, Liam and Poppy all have mobiles. My entire football team had one. I was last."

Sherlock cleared his throat. While he couldn't imagine a life without his mobile, his main form of communication and Google access, he couldn't see why an eight-year-old needed the expensive technology.

"And why exactly does someone your age need a mobile phone?" Sherlock found himself asking, watching the little boy.

Alfie scoffed again. "Because you're a loser without one. The boys always call me that. I can't play ROBLOX. Or text Anna. And she texts Liam. I don't like that."

Sherlock blinked. "Why does it matter if you text Anna?"

The boy flushed red. He cleared his throat. "Because. She's pretty." He adjusted on the seat and went back to fiddling with the device, "How would you feel if some other boy started texting Molly?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away.

 _Well, I've lived through it._

"I see. You fancy this girl. And you feel the only way to be competitive with Liam is to communicate with her."

Alfie grinned. "Yeah. Would you like to see my bitmoji?"

"Sorry, what—"

Their conversation was cut off by the return of Lydia and John, accompanied by Molly, who must have arrived and found the couple. Sherlock looked at the woman—she was clad in a pleasant yellow dress, almost a teasing reminder to Sherlock of their disastrous dinner together.

He sighed and adjusted the napkin on his lap. Molly sat beside Alfie and smiled at the children.

"Good evening, Alfie. Rosie." She glanced at Sherlock and cleared her throat, "Sherlock."

Alfie grinned. "Molly, would you like to see my new mobile?" He held up the shiny new device, his grin devastating large.

Her eyes widened. "A mobile? At your age?"

From across the table, Lydia scoffed. "You're telling me. Quite the row his father and I got into." She gave John a look, a one that had her boyfriend squeezing her hand, "Just up and bought it! Didn't ask me or anything."

Molly frowned. "I'm sorry, Lydia. That's not fair to you."

"Yes, well, David has always been impulsive. Either he thought it would make him look good, or Alfie begged him last weekend," She glanced over at her son, "I'm inclined to think both."

Molly cleared her throat and fiddled with smoothing the napkin on her lap. "Impulsivity only hurts people. It's good to be rational. Thoughtful."

Now, Sherlock wasn't particularly good at decoding conversations, especially when they were directed at him. However, he couldn't ignore the way Molly's eyes shifted ever so slightly in his direction. Of course, then John snorted, so it really wasn't rocket science.

He cleared his throat. "Who's to say Lydia's ex-husband was being impulsive? Who's to say he hadn't thought long and hard about the purchase?"

Lydia opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by Molly. "Do you really, truly think I believe that? I think you and I both know that he likely woke up one morning and thought, 'wow, I'd love to have—'" She cleared her throat, "'Buy Alfie a mobile'. And then, not even an hour later, I'm sure he had a bag from the shop."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "And even if that were the case, who's to say his generosity wasn't genuine? Why does impulsivity make his longing less sincere?"

"That decision affects lives, Sherlock! Entire lives. Nothing will ever be the same."

He moved closer to the table. "And I'm quite sure he knew that. In fact, I'm certain that's exactly why he did what he did."

"No! Per usual, he didn't consider the feelings of those affected!" Molly's face had turned a shade of pink.

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, he most certainly did! He knew that while she may be put off at first, in the end, it would be the best decision! Look at Alfie—he's rather happy, is he not?"

Molly glanced at the boy and then back to Sherlock. "And what happens when things go wrong? The mobile is broken or lost or leads to bad habits or he wants a new one. Then what?"

"I reckon everyone involved will move along just fine. It's a learning experience, is it not?"

John's throat clearing distracted the two's staring contest. He gave a nervous laugh and pulled at his collar. "Hey, it's a different time, yeah? When we were growing up, those things didn't even exist."

"You guys are old." Alfie muttered, his face buried in the device, his fingers running up and down the screen.

Lydia reached across the table and pulled the device from his hands. "Not at the table! There will be rules, Alfred!"

Alfie frowned and dropped into his seat, his arms crossed. "Evangeline was right."

At the name of her ex-husband's girlfriend, her nostrils flared. "Sorry? What did Evangeline say?"

"That you didn't want me to have fun and wouldn't support daddy giving it to me."

Lydia let out a scoff and glanced towards John. "My god, that ridiculous, little twenty-eight-year-old thinks—"

John cleared his throat. "Lydia, not the best—"

"Daddy said you don't let me have fun too!" Alfie declared, jumping to his feet with a huff, "You don't care about me! It's all about _John_ and _Rosie_." He spat out the names of the Watsons like they were poisonous.

Lydia frowned and studied her son. "Now, you wait just a moment Alfie! I go above and beyond to get you to your football practices, and your music lessons, and your—"

The boy immediately burst into tears, stomping his foot in a _very_ public display of anger, "I hate you! I want to live with daddy!"

And before she could speak another word, the eight-year-old boy was bolting out of the restaurant. The four adults immediately leapt to their feet, but it was Sherlock who separated from the table the fastest, chasing after the little boy.

By the time he exited the restaurant, he saw the energetic little boy's sprint down the pavement. He cursed and took off after the boy, unbelieving of the pedestrians who let the young boy hurry along, as if his actions weren't out of the norm.

And while Sherlock was pushing forty, and wearing shoes most certainly _not_ meant from running, he did catch up to the boy, hauling him into his arms. Alfie let out a cry and attempted to fidget, until realizing it was Sherlock holding him.

Sherlock moved under the awning of a shop and set Alfie down, keeping his hands on the boy's shoulders. With one hand, he tipped Alfie's chin up, forcing the boy's teary brown eyes to meet his own. He cursed and pulled his mobile out, quickly texting John that he had him.

"Alfie," He began, his voice unsteady from exertion and… well, and concern, "You can't do that."

Alfie hiccupped and glanced away, his lip quivering, "Mummy doesn't care. She doesn't need me. She has a new family now."

Sherlock shook his head and let out a shuddering breath, surprised by how much the crying child was getting to him. He moved his hand forward and wiped one of the boy's tears away, overwhelmed by the need within him to banish the sadness.

"That's not true," He whispered, holding the boy's teary gaze, "Not true at all. We've discussed this before. Alfie, your mother loves you so very much. You are the most important thing in the world to her."

Alfie hiccupped and shook his head. "She missed my football match to see Rosie at ballet!" He looked away from Sherlock and crossed his arms, "I scored three goals. Daddy and Evangeline went. Then we had fish and chips and he bought me a mobile."

"Your mother can love and care for you while also caring for Rosie, Alfie. Part of loving someone is sharing them." He sighed and forced the young boy to meet his eyes. "I loathe sharing, Alfie. But I share everyone I love with other people."

The boy studied him. "You share?"

Sherlock smiled softly and nodded. "Oh, yes. Well, look at John. He's my best mate. I love him. But I share him with your mum, and Rosie, and you. And Mrs. Hudson. She's my landlady. I share her with her family. I love my parents and—" He chuckled and rubbed at his own face, "Well, I love my brother too, and I share them."

He cleared his throat and glanced back in the direction of the restaurant before back to Alfie. "I love Molly as well. And I share her with so very many people."

Alfie frowned and wiped at his own cheeks. "Why won't Mummy let me have a mobile? I want to text my mates and watch YouTube videos. And…" He looked away again, suddenly bashful, "I don't want to be called a loser anymore."

"I know, Alfie. I understand. When I was your age, the boys were cruel. They called me awful names. And at home, my parents wouldn't let me read _Titus Andronicus_ or watch _Die Hard_ in the cinema. It was devastating."

The little boy blinked, his face blank. "What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't matter. My point is, you must understand that anything your mother does is for your wellbeing. She rather you read or play outside or talk to us than spend the evening with your face attached to a mobile."

Alfie sniffled and studied Sherlock. "Do you think I should have a mobile?"

 _That's a loaded question._

Sherlock smiled softly and gave him a curt nod. "Alfie, if you were my child, I reckon I'd give you whatever you wanted. I certainly think a mobile phone could be a positive influence in your development. However, I do see how it could be detrimental to your welfare."

He ruffled the young boy's hair. "But, how I feel is irrelevant. You have two loving parents who should make decisions together. That's mainly why your mum is upset, Alfie. Your father didn't ask her."

Alfie studied the detective, his eyes alight with curiosity. "You're very smart, Sherlock. John always said so, but he also called you an idiot. I didn't think someone could be smart _and_ an idiot."

"Believe me, Alfie," Sherlock began, crouching down to meet the child's level, "You could be the smartest man in the world, and still be a blithering idiot. I have been a fool on many occasions."

That peaked the little boy's interest. "Tell me. I want to hear about you being a fool."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "Very well. But first, you promise that you will apologize to your mother and tell her how dearly you love her."

Alfie sniffled and nodded. "I promise."

Sherlock grabbed the little boy's hand and began the short journey back, the panicking feeling in his gut finally settling.

 _He's safe._

-x-x-x-

Sherlock wasn't surprised to find John, Lydia, Rosie and Molly standing in front of the restaurant when they approached the building. Lydia burst into tears and Alfie immediately let go of Sherlock's hand, sprinting into the women's arms. The two proceeded to cry and speak in hushed whispers.

The moment felt intimate, and even Sherlock couldn't bear to watch. He turned away, instead studying the dimly lit street, desperate for a cigarette or something to take the edge off. He didn't move when John's figure appeared beside him.

"Thank you." Was all he muttered, before journeying to his girlfriend's side.

When he heard some of the sniffling cease, as well as John's soothing voice, Sherlock felt comfortable enough to turn around. He made eye contact with Molly, who held Rosie, before diverting his gaze to Alfie.

The little boy was wrapped back in his jacket, holding his mother's hand, his face red from tears. Lydia herself was overcome with tears, being comforted by John.

 _With a child, your first concern is no longer yourself. It's them._

Sherlock took a shaky breath. However, Lydia's voice knocked him out of his thoughts.

"Sherlock, thank you," She whispered, her voice raw, "We've just been going through a lot." She wiped at her eyes and glanced over to Alfie, who was being talked to by John, "It's hard for him. Our divorce, both myself and his father dating… I know it's a hard adjustment."

Sherlock nodded. He wanted to say that he understood, but frankly, he didn't. For all the complaints he made about his parents, they were forever loving and welcoming. His childhood was perfectly pleasant.

"Alfie will come to understand how dearly you care about him. But I…" He scratched at his neck, his voice hesitant, "I urge you to remember that this is a different generation. While our hot toy was a bicycle or that silly video game console, his is a mobile phone. Without one, he feels left out." Sherlock cleared his throat, "And as someone who grew up not fitting in, perhaps a chance to meet the status quo is welcome."

Lydia watched him, taken aback by his comments. "He feels left out?"

"The boys call him a loser."

She sniffled and zipped up her jacket. "I… I had no idea. He never said so to me."

"As someone who was bullied extensively in primary school, I assure you, it isn't pleasant to be reminded of the harsh nicknames."

Before Lydia could respond, Alfie had hurried over and hugged Sherlock's legs. He smiled up at the man, his cheeks flushed from tears and exhaustion.

"Sherlock, will you come to my match this weekend?" He asked, his smile contagious, "I would like you to come. You can meet my father."

He was momentarily taken aback by the little boy's request, but soon came to and nodded. "Yes. I will come."

"I'm number 11 if you'd like to make a sign." Alfie explained, before returning to his mother.

With one final apology, John ushered his girlfriend and the children away, promising that they'd order a pizza since dinner had never been served. Sherlock watched them move down the street, still standing in front of the restaurant. He sighed and glanced over to Molly, who had been watching him carefully.

He swallowed. "Molly—"

"You went after him." She hurried out, her eyes shining with something Sherlock couldn't recognize, "You… You went after him."

He frowned. "Of course, I did. I had to."

She shook her head. "No, you didn't." She took a shuddering breath and moved closer to him, "Most men would have let his mother or John go after him. But instead, you went after him. A child you've known for only a few weeks."

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, I did. People rarely want to speak to the cause of their negative feelings. I've been where Alfie was. I've felt what he's feeling." He shifted and looked down, "They're universal feelings. Worries of being inadequate. Fears of being replaced. The concerns of being unlovable."

Molly frowned. "Sherlock…"

He cursed and brought both his hands to his head, quickly ruffling the soft locks. "Molly, I'm sorry if I said something to upset you or make you feel uncomfortable. That was never my intention. I simply felt this need… This gaping hole… A space in my life that I know only a child could fill. And naturally, given our friendship and my deep admiration for you, I wanted you to mother my child."

She wiped at her eyes, clearly surprised by the tears. She looked away from the droplets on her hands to Sherlock. "Sherlock, you are the most reckless, selfish, impulsive, rude arsehole I've ever met in my life."

He frowned. "I see."

Molly let out a shaky laugh and shook her head. "But there's no one I'd rather have a child with."

Upon registering her words, he gulped and met her gaze. He immediately perked up. "You mean that?"

She wiped her tears and nodded. "Yeah. I'll regret this once I can barely walk or see my toes but yeah, I mean that."

He pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her head. "I will never hurt you, Molly. Never again. And I will never hurt our child."

She sniffled and shut her eyes, wishing it were that simple. After a few moments, she pulled away and straightened her jacket, going into business mode. She cleared her throat.

"We have a lot to discuss though, Sherlock. We have to set some ground rules. Figure out how this is going to work."

He nodded eagerly. "Yes. Of course. I've already drafted up some preliminary paperwork."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Were you assuming I was going to say yes?"

He cleared his throat. "No, Molly. Simply hoping."

Molly flushed and looked away. "Are you free tomorrow?"

"I will always be available for you."

"Grand. Tomorrow then."

She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and whispered goodbye before beginning her walk to the tube station. Sherlock swallowed and watched her walk away, before racing after her.

"MOLLY!"

She stopped walking and turned to face him, surprised by his appearance. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Well, I…" He swallowed and clasped his hands behind his back, "Just to be explicitly clear, we're having a baby together, right?"

And with an erratically beating heart and impossibly red cheeks, Molly nodded.

"Yes, Sherlock. We're having a baby together."


	3. Conception

It was a rainy Saturday morning on Baker Street, the soft patters against the window a comforting sound to Sherlock. He sat in his favorite chair, staring at his case map, the brown gaze of Molly's face looking back at him.

It was really happening. He was going to have a baby.

 _With Molly._

It was a startling thought. Sure, they had many logistics to move through, as well as actually creating the child, but they were moving in the right direction. In fact, Molly was due to arrive at his flat within the hour, prepared to discuss the future.

 _Our future._

Sherlock ignored the way his stomach flipped at the thought and jumped to his feet. Still clad in his pajamas and a dressing gown, he figured it would be ideal to put on real clothes upon her arrival. He glanced into the kitchen.

 _Tea too._

With that, he strolled towards the bedroom, knowing that within the next few hours, his life would change completely.

-x-x-x-

They sat across from one another at the table, drinking whatever tea Sherlock could find in the cupboards. Molly had kindly brought along some homemade biscuits, which Sherlock nibbled on while she flipped through a stack of papers.

He admired her dedication to examining the sheets. However, he was surprised by how businesslike Molly was treating the situation.

 _You'd think we were signing a mortgage, not agreeing to have a bloody child._

"So," She began, setting her papers down, "I brought a list of things we need to discuss."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Of course."

"First, I want you tested." She frowned and played with the dainty bracelet on her list, "As much as I trust you Sherlock, I need to make certain that you're clean."

He frowned and nodded slowly. "Of course. If it makes you happy."

"It would. Also, no more smoking. It would be awful for the baby."

"Three months without a cigarette so far. I'm trying my hardest."

She nodded. "Those aside, we need to figure out how our living situation is going to work."

Sherlock perked up at that. "Oh. I have a solution to that."

"You do?"

"Yes. 221C is still unoccupied. It needs some renovations, but the bones are good. It's slightly smaller than 221B, but it has two bedrooms and two bathrooms." He shifted in his seat and continued, "So, you can reside there full time. We can set up the nursery in one of the flats, whichever one, but we both can roam about. This way, you have your own space, but we effectively live together."

Molly looked around the flat before back to Sherlock. "How much renovation does it need?"

"Mainly cosmetic. Some new appliances. Perhaps re-do the bathrooms. But it's a lovely space with a good view of the city."

She sighed and bit her lip. "And until it's renovated?"

"Well…" He cleared his throat, "I would like for you to reside here. With me. And given that your lease is expiring," He rolled his eyes at her look of surprise (as if he couldn't find that information out), "and Baker Street is closer to the hospital, it makes more sense for you to relocate here."

He sat up and smiled. "Effective immediately."

Molly looked around the flat again before back to Sherlock. "I'll have to look at the space but…" she sighed, seemingly discouraged that they came to a consensus so quickly, "I suppose that will do."

Sherlock frowned. "You don't seem satisfied with the decision."

She cleared her throat. "I wasn't expecting you to agree to any of my demands or suggest anything useful."

He looked affronted. "And why not?"

She rolled her eyes. "You aren't always exactly easy to work with, Sherlock."

He crossed his arms. "Continue."

Molly sighed. "Right. I want us to split everything. We will contribute equally to the wellbeing of the child, both financially and with general care."

"Agreed."

"I want to meet your parents and I want you to meet my brother."

"Of course."

"The child will be vaccinated. Attend a good day care. Preferably get some sort of language emersion early on. We'll sign him or her up for lots of different things—sports, music lessons, the whole lot."

"Obviously."

Molly frowned. "Why are you being so agreeable?"

Sherlock made a face. "Would you like me to disagree and argue with you?"

She slumped into her seat. "No, no, of course not. I just…"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Did you arrive expecting to fight? Were you looking forward to us disagreeing, so you could simply change your mind and leave?"

At her face, he glanced away.

 _Bingo._

"If you don't want to have my child," He began, his voice soft, "Then just go Molly."

She sighed and dropped her head to her hands. "No, it's not that Sherlock. I do. I really do."

"Then what?"

She let out a strangled laugh. "I just… I dunno. None of this seems real. I guess I assumed if you were an arse and we fought that It would actually just be a dream. But…" She smiled a bit and looked to him, "I guess it's real."

Sherlock studied her. "I said it before and I will say it again. I want to have a child with you, Molly. Very much so. If you share that sentiment, then let's continue our discussion. If that is in fact not something you desire, then I suggest you leave."

Molly smiled softly. "No. Let's continue."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Very well. You will move into 221C after renovations but reside in 221B in the meantime. One of the spare bedrooms in either flat will be converted into a nursery. We'll split financials. Our families will be involved. The child will not be stupid. What else?"

She couldn't help but laugh softly. "Religion?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "It's not something I care about. However, my parents go to church, as do you. So, if you would like the child to be raised under your faith, then I have no qualms."

She nodded. "Schooling?"

"Well, unfortunately, that it is a tad trickier. Once I let Mycroft know, assuming the noisy prat does not already, he will likely push some posh public school in the area."

She bit her lip. "I don't think that will be necessary."

Sherlock sighed. "Molly, our lives will be much easier if we give into his demands. Besides, the education will be spectacular, and if Mycroft wants to foot the bill, then so be it."

Molly nodded. "Very well. And if I were to eventually get married?"

That question caught him off guard. He froze, his eyes locked on the table, every muscle in his body tensing.

"Are you currently seeing anyone?" He found himself asking, his voice clipped.

"No. Not at the moment. But who knows what the future could bring."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked to her. "If it happens, we'll have to discuss it then. I presume we'd treat custody like a divorced couple. Fifty-fifty. No leaving London."

Molly nodded slowly. "Right."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Sherlock grabbed another biscuit and glanced out the window, taking his time to chew the homemade dessert. Molly studied her tea cup, her knee anxiously bouncing up and down. Finally, she glanced back to Sherlock.

"So that's it then? We're settled?" She asked, studying the man.

He swallowed the biscuit in his mouth and nodded. "Well, yes. I'll have Mrs. Hudson take you through 221C, and then we can look into the remodeling process, but I reckon that's all we need for now."

Molly rose to her feet and began to collect the loose items on the table, stacking her empty tea cup with Sherlock's. However, by the time she had deposited both into the sink, she stood in the kitchen, staring at Sherlock. Noticing her response, he quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"Erm…" She blew a loose strand of hair away from her face and wrapped her arms around herself, "Well, we sort of…"

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "Yes. I suppose we need to discuss…" He pursed his lips before sighing, "Conception."

Molly strolled back into the sitting room. She leaned against the wall, watching Sherlock.

"So…"

He studied her. "I presume you have a preference?"

She coughed. "Well, I just… I assumed you'd have a list of options."

He made a face. "There are three, Molly. But you're a doctor. I'm sure you can put two and two together."

She sighed and began to toy with her hair. "Yes, well…"

He groaned. "Look, there's in vitro fertilization, which would only be done should you have fertility issues. So, obviously, we have two choices."

Molly flushed. "I know."

He cleared his throat. "So, Molly Hooper, would you prefer intracervical insemination or…" he shifted again, suddenly bashful, "sexual intercourse?"

She coughed again and looked away, unable to meet his penetrating gaze. "Why is it only up to me? Sherlock, I'm used to you being bossy. You can't expect me to only make the decision!"

He crossed his arms. "I'm trying to be emotionally available and a team player. John recommended that."

She groaned. "Yes, well, this is a big decision. I can't make it alone."

Sherlock scoffed. "Then look at me, why don't you? I can't have a discussion with you if you refuse to meet my eyes."

Molly sighed and turned back around, meeting his gaze. They studied each other for a few moments. Finally, Molly whimpered and looked down.

"Look… I just…" She sighed and bit her lip, "Artificial insemination seems so clinical and I…" She hugged herself again, "If we have the opportunity to, I just feel like we should do things naturally."

She took a deep breath and looked back to Sherlock. "Our lives are clinical enough. It might do us some good to do things the natural way."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "So, you want us to have sexual intercourse?"

Once the words left his mouth, she dropped her head to her hands. She let out a cry, somewhere between frustration and amusement. Sherlock just watched her.

"Yes! I mean… No!" She pulled at her hair. "Oh, who am I kidding? We can't shag! That would be mad!" She began to pace the room, "How could we look at each other after that? It would be mad. Absolutely, barking mad."

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face. "So, you don't want to have sexual intercourse? You want to artificially inseminate yourself?"

Her face fell at his words. "Artificial… Oh god, everything sounds so bloody clinical! My life is spent in a lab! I can't…"

He crossed his arms. "So… Sex?"

She blinked a few times and just pulled at her hair. Sherlock sighed and jumped to his feet.

"Okay. Molly, look at me."

She glanced over to Sherlock, her eyes tired. He cleared his throat.

"Clearly you want to conceive naturally, but you're concerned about us becoming intimate without things being uncomfortable."

She nodded. "Yes. Exactly."

"So," He continued, running a hand through his curls, "Shall we engage in very bland, for the purposes of only procreation, sex?"

She blinked. "How do you mean?"

He scratched his neck. "Well, you know, how the priests used to teach you. Under the covers… We don't even need to be nude. Just…" He sighed and ruffled his curls, "We'll just be naked from the waist down. You know, missionary."

She swallowed and nodded. "Oh, I see. Just get you in and get you out."

Sherlock's face fell. He glanced away and nodded. "Well, yes. That."

Molly took a shaky breath. "Alright. I reckon that will work. But that means nothing intimate." She bit her lip and looked away, "No kissing. No foreplay. Nothing. I'll… prepare myself. And then we'll be done."

Sherlock blinked. "Right. Did you have a time in mind?"

"Well, let me check my menses app to see when I'm ovulating—"

He glanced at the calendar on the wall. "Mhm. You should begin Thursday. Women are more likely to conceive two days before ovulation, so Tuesday would be preferable."

Molly looked at him, mouth agape. "How in god's name do you know my cycle?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's nothing personal. I knew my mother's. I knew Mary's. I know Sally's. I even know Lydia's. It's easy to pick up the pattern with how much your behavior changes."

Molly muttered to herself and grabbed her purse. "Right. So. Tuesday. I'll come over and we'll…"

"Fornicate, yes."

She sighed and zipped her jacket. However, instead of moving towards the door, she opened her purse and began to remove medical supplies, including a plastic cup and a needle. Sherlock blinked.

"What are—"

"I told you I was going to test you, Sherlock. I'm not going to have unprotected sex with you without making sure you're clean."

He crossed his arms and stuck his chin up. "Oh, and I'm supposed to assume that you're clean?"

She gave him a look but pulled out a sheet of paper with her status. "Here. I tested myself, although I'm not stupid. Besides, it's been…" She sighed and shook her head, "Awhile. But this is a requirement of mine."

Sherlock mumbled to himself and sat down. "Very well. But you have to do something for me in return."

Molly rolled her eyes and began to disinfect the surface. "Yeah? Because god knows I don't do enough for you as it is."

"This is different. I need you to help me make Alfie a sign for his football match tomorrow."

She stopped her set-up and glanced to Sherlock. "You want to make him a sign?"

He cleared his throat and nodded. "Not good? I thought that—"

She smiled and shook her head. "Very good, Sherlock. It's incredibly sweet."

He swallowed and nodded. "Splendid."

And before he could enjoy the moment, she had shoved the cup into his hands, demanding a urine sample.

 _My Molly. Always thorough._

-x-x-x-

The following day, Sherlock arrived at a park in the middle of the city, the light mist grazing across his curly hair and famous jacket. He eyed the parents, street vendors, and rambunctious children with disdain, suddenly questioning his own appearance. That was, of course, until he heard a little boy shout his name.

Standing by the bleachers with a mega-watt smile was Alfie, who was currently having his football boots tied with vigor by a well-groomed man. Based on the bloke's messy brown hair and height, Sherlock knew the man to be his father. Seated beside the two were John, who was trying to tame Rosie's hair into a hat, and Lydia, who seemed to be forcing passible conversation with a younger woman, who again Sherlock assumed to be the ever-mentioned Evangeline.

Sherlock glanced back to Alfie, unable to hold back a smile at the boy's enthusiastic wave. He cleared his throat and approached the boy.

"Alfie. Hello. Are you ready for your match?"

The boy nodded excitedly. His father, once satisfied with the knots, stood up and proceeded to kick at his son's shin guards. Alfie only grinned.

"Yes! I want to score four goals. One more than last time!" He turned to his father and smiled, "Daddy, this is Sherlock. My mate."

The man eyed Sherlock curiously. "I'll be damned. Alfie kept going on and on about some bloke named Sherlock, but I didn't think it was really you. London's most famous detective."

Sherlock gave him a curt nod. "I suppose so."

"Well, David Hayes. Pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock glanced to John, unsurprised to find his best mate watching the interaction with a sort of morbid fascination. He looked back to David. "Likewise." He turned to Alfie. "Good luck with your match. I made you a sign."

Alfie's eyes lit up. "You did?"

Reaching into his jacket, Sherlock pulled out a rolled-up poster, quickly unfurrowing it. He waved the sheet in the air, before steadying it in front of the boy. In the middle of the white surface were bubble letters, spelling out ' _Go Alfie! #11 on the pitch but #1 in my heart'_ , decorated in various colors and decorations.

Sherlock glanced down and read the message. He cleared his throat. "Well, Molly helped. I suggested simply 'Play well Alfie' but it seems she got… sentimental."

Alfie beamed. "It's brilliant! Thank you!" He looked around before back to Sherlock, "Molly didn't come?"

"Oh, no. She… Had plans."

Well, truthfully, Sherlock had no idea what Molly was up to, but he presumed she was thinking over their agreement and enjoying her days off. Besides, he knew their next nine or so months were going to impact her daily life far more than they would impact his.

Alfie nodded. "Thanks for the sign, Sherlock! Make sure to cheer real loud when I score, okay?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course. Good luck."

The boy exchanged a few additional words with his father and waved to his mother, before hurrying to the pitch. Sherlock, still holding the sign, moved towards the bleachers, settling beside John. His mate eyed him with pure amusement.

He scoffed. "What?"

"Adorable sign, mate. You sure Molly made that?" John asked, before placing Rosie back in her pram.

Sherlock set the sign down. "She did. I helped."

"It's cute. You're a lot softer than I expected."

He scoffed. "I am not soft. What a ridiculous statement."

John couldn't help but snort. "Yeah, alright. You decided you wanted a baby and a dog, not to mention have befriended an eight-year-old, so far as to show up to his football match with a homemade sign." He grinned and handed Rosie her sippy cup, "You are the definition of soft."

Sherlock grumbled. "You recommended I become more emotionally available."

"Oh, hey, don't misunderstand me mate! I support it. It's just bloody funny."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked towards David, who had joined his girlfriend on the bleachers. John followed his gaze.

"Yeah, Lydia can't stand him bringing his new girlfriend along. David can be a real dick, but he's normally tolerable. Though Evangeline… She just likes to start trouble. Got here screaming about her hair getting wet. Ridiculous," John explained with a yawn, "But Alfie wants them here, so it is what it is."

Sherlock considered his words, reminded of his conversation with Molly the previous evening.

 _And if I were to eventually get married?_

He shifted and focused on the pitch. What if Molly did eventually get married? Sure, the prospect always existed. Hell, it almost _did_ happen. But in his mind palace, in his perfect, dream scenario, he and Molly would happy cohabit with their child until said kid moved out.

Yet, the thought of her one day settling down and leaving him caused a great amount of discomfort in his gut. He couldn't help but think about the emotional turmoil Alfie was suffering through. It was extraordinarily hard on a child to have to split time between two parents, especially when new partners were introduced.

And Evangeline aside, Sherlock knew John. He was a great man. And if Alfie could express displeasure with his presence, then surely it had nothing to do with the man himself, and instead with the overall situation.

How would he live with that?

Noticing the shifting and sighing, John turned to his friend. "What? Already annoyed by the match?"

Sherlock grumbled. "No. The match is fine. I just… Molly and I discussed our terms yesterday afternoon."

"And?"

"It went smoothly. She was surprised—I was not. But, she did bring up a consideration that I admittedly had not thought of before."

"Yeah? Which is? You reproduce independently while she's knocked up and then have to raise two babies?"

Sherlock was not amused. "No. She simply suggested…" He sighed and rubbed at his face, "Well, she inquired what the protocol would be if she were to eventually get married."

John shrugged and focused on the pitch. "Yeah? Seems reasonable."

"Do you…" Sherlock cleared his throat, "Believe she would get married after our child is born?"

John turned to his best mate. "Yeah. I do. Molly has always wanted to get married. Now sure, with you and the baby around she'll have a lot less time to date, but if the right bloke came along, she most certainly would."

Sherlock blinked. "I don't understand. Why would she have to get married if we have a child?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, people don't only get married to have children. I'm sure that's part of the reason why she would want to get married, but certainly not the only reason."

He glanced over to Lydia before back to Sherlock. "Just having a baby isn't going to stop her desire to find companionship or fall in love. Just look at Lydia and me. We both have kids. We've both been married. But that didn't stop us from wanting to be with each other."

Sherlock looked away, considering John's words. "I see."

John sighed. "There is, of course, a surefire way to make sure she doesn't marry anyone."

The detective glanced back to his friend, defeated. "I would include in our agreement no marriage, but I know she'd disagree."

John groaned and smacked his head. "No. You're a moron, Sherlock. If you don't want Molly to get married, then enter a relationship with her yourself!"

Sherlock crossed his arms and hissed. "Stop it. I don't have feelings for her."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Get over yourself, mate. I know Mycroft beat into your head that 'sentiment is losing' and whatever else codswallop, but you clearly have feelings for her. And just by deciding you want a kid, you're already losing your edge."

Sherlock opened his mouth to spit out a scathing retort but was cut off by a familiar voice. Both men immediately turned around.

"I get such a tickling feeling inside when others talk about me. Do you, dearest brother?"

Mycroft stood by the bleachers, clad in apparel far too nice for the public park, huddled under his signature black umbrella. At the look of surprise on John and his brother's face, he simply smirked and continued speaking.

"I must say, I didn't believe Anthea when she said she had tracked you to here. Yet, here you are! My, look how domesticated you've become, Sherlock. Out and watching youth football! What could be next? Mummy and me yoga classes?"

Sherlock growled and stood up. "Mycroft, what on Earth are you doing out in the daylight?"

Mycroft smirked. "I'm doing my civic duty, Sherlock. Surveying the…" He glanced around the pitch, a look of revulsion spreading across his features, "Future leaders of England."

"You ever been to a football match?" John asked, amused by how out of place both Holmes boys looked beside the pitch.

"Indeed. I've been dragged to mainly of these…" He glanced around again, his face in a perpetual state of displeasure, "events. You know how it is. If someone above me invites me, I must go."

"Ah, yes! How is that promotion you were passed on, Mycroft? Is Richard settling in well?"

Mycroft sent his brother a murderous look. "Watch your words, Sherlock. This was meant to be a pleasant visit."

"And why was there a visit at all?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "This is precisely why I'm the smart one."

Sherlock growled. "I shall rephrase the question. _How_ did you find out?"

"I track your spending habits and internet history, Sherlock. It was rather bizarre to see your recent purchases include three books on child-rearing and an internet history ranging from articles on ovulation to the best maternity wards in London."

Sherlock scowled. "Fantastic detective work, Mycroft. Shall I call Lestrade? Put you on the case?"

"Charming, as usual, brother mine. I dropped by with a simple question."

"Mhm. Amuse me, then."

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock glanced over to John, who was desperately pretending not to pay attention, but still listened even if his eyes were on the pitch. Sherlock opened his mouth but was interrupted by a presence he had forgotten about.

"Uncie Sherwock hab bwaby. Wiff Mow-wee," Rosie announced, before taking another drink from her sippy cup, "Wosie pway wiff."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked back to Mycroft. "My intelligent goddaughter has explained it. Is that all?"

Mycroft looked at the toddler then back to Sherlock. "Do you understand what you're signing up for, Sherlock?"

He nodded. "I do."

Mycroft stared at his brother, studying his features. After a moment, he offered Sherlock a curt nod. "Very well. I approve."

John could no longer pretend to watch the match. He coughed and turned to the Holmeses. "What? You approve? How?"

"How? It's quite simple, really. Sherlock doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. So, if he's having a child with Dr. Hooper, then he must truly want to be a father."

John blinked. "Yes, but, it's Sherlock and—"

"I'm aware of the past behavior of my brother. But he also faked his death to protect you. He frequently puts his life in danger to save others," He glanced over to Sherlock, "If he wants to have a baby, then I have the upmost confidence that he would devote his life to caring for the child."

Sherlock swallowed, taken aback by his brother's words. He met Mycroft's gaze. "You support this?"

Mycroft looked slightly annoyed. "With the exception of your drug use, when have I ever not supported your endeavors?"

Sherlock let out a terse breath. "Very well. Please don't tell mother and father until Molly is actually pregnant."

"Mhm. Your secret is safe with me," He smirked, "on one condition."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes?"

"I have a list of public schools that will have to be considered. At you and Molly's earliest convenience, we can discuss schooling."

John groaned. "The baby hasn't even been conceived yet!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "John, some of these schools have five or six year waiting lists. While I can make many calls, some places are even exclusive for me."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell. You two are ridiculous."

Sherlock ruffled his hair. "Very well. I accept your schooling condition. Are we finished?"

"Indeed."

With his final word, Mycroft strolled away. Sherlock immediately went back to watching the match. John, however, stared at his best friend, astounded.

"Are you for real? That's it? You two are the weirdest fucking blokes I've ever encountered!"

Sherlock shrugged. "While Mycroft and I have our issues, he understands me," He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, "He supports me."

Before John could respond, Alfie scored, sending the bleachers into a frenzy of cheers and claps. And while Sherlock normally loathed the idea of cheering during sporting matches (or really sporting matches in general), he couldn't stop himself from joining the group, clapping along in celebration.

-x-x-x-

 _ **The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**_

 _ **Date: February 20, 2019**_

 _ **A Baby for Baker Street – III**_

 _ **She agreed. Molly actually agreed to have a baby with Sherlock. So, in perhaps the most ridiculous twist since the end of "Fight Club", Sherlock Holmes is going to be a father. And Mycroft bloody supports it!**_

 _ **I haven't yet asked about how they intend to produce the baby. However, the thought of them doing it naturally seems unlikely. He's not a virgin—I know the Woman had some effect on him. But knowing his feelings for Molly and the way he continues to deny them, I can't imagine them shagging. Besides, Molly loves him deeply. I reckon it would be too much for her.**_

 _ **We'll just have to see. Assuming I even want to know.**_

 _ **Actually… I really don't think I want to.**_

-x-x-x-

Sherlock stared at the clock. The day had been long—yesterday, he had gotten a six, albeit an easy one, and his subsequent eighteen hours had been spent tracking down a serial killer in Surrey. He had just gotten home that Tuesday afternoon, before falling into a heavy sleep. However, by seven, his body had woken him up, reminding him of what was to come.

Molly would arrive at eight sharp.

It was time for them to make a baby.

So, he had quickly showered and changed into his pajamas and dressing gown, too wound up to do anything but pace and stare at the clock. She was due any moment now, and he couldn't stop thinking about how the next hour would change his life forever.

 _A baby._

 _With Molly._

They had rarely spoken since their discussion on Saturday, sans a text from her confirming what he already knew—that he was clean—and that she would be arriving at eight on Tuesday. But, aside from those two text messages, his world had been silent.

By the time he managed another shaky breath, Molly had strolled into the apartment. She had clearly gone home and changed after work, now dressed in a comfortable pair of lounge pants and a sweatshirt from her time in uni. She slipped off her shoes and jacket before turning to Sherlock.

The two studied each other, the nerves apparent on their faces.

Molly spoke first. "Good day?"

"Yes. Solved a six."

"Splendid."

"And you?"

"Three bodies. Nothing gruesome."

"Splendid."

Silence claimed them. Molly shifted back and forth, looking around the flat in mock curiosity. Sherlock sighed and rubbed at his chin.

"Um. Tea?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but instead shook her head. "No, no. Let's just get this over with."

He cleared his throat and nodded, although her language had him holding back a frown. "Yes. Of course. Did you have a desired procedure?"

She glanced towards the bedroom, no doubt remembering that the last time she shared his bed, she had woken up to two children at her feet.

 _Seems fitting._

"Well," She cleared his throat and began to fiddle with her hair, "I'll get in bed and get… You know. And then I'll call for you. And once you're under the blankets, you can take your pants off and then…" She flushed and glanced away, "Get in and get out."

He flinched, her language again stroking at his nerves. "Right. I'll get in and get out."

She nodded. "Good. Agreed. Again, no kissing." She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away, "It's a bit too intimate. Let's keep things strictly business."

He offered her a curt nod. "Right."

"And don't be surprised if I don't…" She coughed and looked down, "Have an orgasm. I rarely do with any of the past blokes I've been with, and I don't expect to now. But, that's fine."

She pulled at her hair. "Really, it's fine. So… Yeah. No kissing. Let's just do this efficiently."

Sherlock blinked. "Efficiently. As you wish."

She met his gaze and sighed. "Great. I'll shout for you when I'm ready."

Molly strolled down the hallway, leaving Sherlock in his sitting room. He dropped to his chair and shut his eyes, wondering if this would work. For some reason, one he refused to evaluate, he was hoping this wouldn't work.

That she wouldn't get pregnant the first time around.

As soon as the thought escaped the very deep, very inappropriate recesses of his thoughts, he scowled. No kissing, no touching, nothing but him…

 _Getting in and getting out._

Sherlock was never a fan of human connection, specifically touching. Sure, he'd kiss his mother's cheek or hug Mrs. Hudson when necessary, but he didn't particularly care for skin on skin activities. But, that being said, he did enjoy sex.

He simply had it infrequently.

 _Very_ infrequently.

And yet, the one time he had an excellent excuse to have it, with a partner he trusted, he was being demoted to a living, breathing, sperm donation.

 _Beggars can't be choosers. She said yes. Accept the terms and conditions._

He let out a terse breath. What was she doing in his bed? Was she touching herself? Getting herself properly lubricated before he performed his duty?

Just the thought of Molly in his sheets, even if only partially naked, had his skin growing hot. Coupled with the knowledge that he would soon be impregnating her, and the likelihood of her touching herself, he was somehow already achingly hard. Perhaps it was the truly human side of him, the inherently male side that he so desperately tried to bury, that loved the thought of putting a baby inside of her.

 _My baby._

He hissed, quickly adjusting himself.

 _Getting in and getting out._

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of her voice, yelling that she was ready. He swallowed and rose to his feet, dropping his dressing gown as he walked. He entered the bedroom and shut the door, before turning to face Molly.

She laid in the middle of the bed, her head comfortably resting on one of his pillows. Her yoga pants and sweatshirt had been discarded, but even under the blankets, he could see the t-shirt still covering her upper half. In fact, with her arms resting on top of the duvet, and the blanket resting below her neck, she simply looked like she was preparing for a pre-bed read.

Not a healthy shag.

Sherlock swallowed.

"I'm ready so…" Molly cleared her throat and looked away, her face flushed, "Just go ahead and take your trousers off. Then, when you're under the blankets, just take your pants off."

He nodded and toed his trousers off, now standing in front of her clad in only his tented pants, and a black undershirt. With a deep breath, he pulled the blanket back as far as he could without exposing Molly and climbed under. He settled beside her and reached below the blankets, pulling his pants off. After tossing them to the side, he rolled and hovered over her, his elbows propped on either side of her body.

He met her gaze and gulped. Her eyes were wet, and his heart immediately began to pound.

"Molly…"

"Go ahead," She croaked out, forcing a small smile, "Just remember what we agreed."

He swallowed and nodded, before moving one of his arms below the blankets. He pushed one of her legs further apart, before wrapping his hand around his swollen length. He looked back to her, frowning at the way she squeezed her eyes shut, as if she was uncomfortable.

"Molly…" He began again, "Are you sure—"

"Yes!" She forced out, still with her eyes shut, "Please, Sherlock. Just get it over with."

He cursed and shook his head, completely baffled by her treatment of the evening. If she wanted efficiency, then he would give her efficiency.

He pushed forward, entering her warm depths, the sensation immediately sucking the air from his lungs. He heard an identical squeak of surprise from her end, although she kept her eyes squeezed shut. He cursed and began to move, albeit slowly, dropping his head to the crook of her neck.

And that's how he continued. His hips moved in quick, desperate thrusts, himself lost in the incredible sensation of her body. He pushed his nose into her hair, inhaling the musky aroma of her sex and sweat, and the deliciously sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo.

She let out soft gasps of pleasure every time his hips met hers, her hands no longer lingering at her sides. She had one placed on his shirt-covered back, the other tangled in his messy curls. Molly also continued to subconsciously wrap her legs around his body but would immediately drop them to the bed upon realizing her actions.

The entire experience was a push of pleasure from Sherlock's end, his grunts of delight and expert movements steady, and a pull from Molly, who seemed intent on withholding pleasure from her withering form.

"Christ, Molly," He found himself gasping out, one hand squeezing her thigh as he began to pound into her faster, his body slapping against hers, "I'm almost there."

She couldn't help but moan at the tone of his voice, her hands tightening their hold on his hair and t-shirt as he continued his movements. "Let go, Sherlock," She gasped out.

Yet, as he continued his movements, he found himself unable to finish without her around him. His entire plan was supposed to be mutually beneficial—a child would be a gift for both of them. Surely sex had to work the same way. So, he moved his hand from her thigh to the crevice between her legs, his fingers settling on her bundle of nerves.

At the feeling of his warm fingers, Molly gasped and jerked her hips up. "Sherlock—" She cried out, "You don't have—"

He grunted and began to rub at the nub, his hips continuing their unrelenting pace. "Mhm. Together." He insisted, continuing his movements.

He moved his head from the crook of her neck, instead meeting her chocolate eyes. At the sight of his blue gaze, she let out a cry, her body convulsing around his length. And like magic, the feeling of her around him was too much, and he immediately felt himself crying out, losing the last of control he had left.

And then they both came down, collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion. Molly shut her eyes and buried her face into the pillow the best she could without turning around. Sherlock settled on top of her body and let out a soft moan, unable to move off her.

They remained like that for a few moments, before Sherlock rolled off, knowing he'd crush her with any more time in the position. He slid to the edge of the bed and grabbed his pants, quickly sliding them on before rising to his feet. He glanced at Molly, who had opened her eyes, and was now watching him.

"I'm going to make some tea." Sherlock suggested, as he slipped into his trousers, "Would you like some?"

She nodded and continued to stare at him. "Sherlock…"

He cleared his throat. "Don't move. I read online that women should remain in bed for approximately twenty minutes after intercourse to encourage the sperm along."

She made a face. "Are you serious?"

"Very much so."

"Figures. Men and their egos always need a cheerleader. I'm not surprised their sperm needs one as well."

He couldn't help but smile. "Relax," He found himself whispering, his eyes locked on hers, "It's finished. And with any luck…"

He cleared his throat and opened the door. "Well, with any luck you'll be pregnant in a few weeks' time."

Sherlock disappeared out the door, leaving Molly in his bed. And finally, she let herself cry, even if just a bit.

-x-x-x-

About thirty minutes later, she had joined him in the sitting room, clad in a dressing gown with wet hair. She had jumped in the shower after remaining in bed for Sherlock's recommended period, and now had finally built up the confidence to join Sherlock.

He was sitting in his chair, sipping tea, reading a book on pregnancy. The way her stomach flipped made her want to tear up.

Again.

"Hi." She whispered into the quiet room.

He cleared his throat and shut the book, turning to face Molly. His face was flushed red, and even his shoulders had relaxed, his body oozing with a level of tranquility that Molly hadn't ever seen before on him.

Clearly sex could do wonders.

Even the boring, god-fearing kind.

"Molly. Tea?"

She nodded and retrieved a cup, before dropping into John's old chair. They studied each other, only their sips of tea distracting their focus.

" _What to Expect When You're Expecting_?" Molly teased, her eyes locked on Sherlock, "Not the reading habits I expected from you, Sherlock."

He glanced at the book and looked back to Molly. If his face hadn't been flushed from their previous activity, he likely would have turned red.

"I don't believe in baptism by fire unless absolutely necessary. Since I have the time and the capacity to prepare myself for a momentous life event, such as having a child, I see no reason why I should not read up on it."

Molly swallowed and bit her lip. "Yes, but, you won't be the pregnant one."

He shrugged. "You'll be pregnant. I'll support you. I should be prepared."

She smiled softly. "Does it say anything interesting?"

"Not particularly. I'm only on chapter three. However, I was reading online that women typically become the most sexually aroused during their second trimester. So," He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, "I would be happy to help you again, should your urges become… difficult."

Molly blinked. "Right. Thanks for the… generosity."

He nodded. "I'm simply thinking ahead. I want to make this as seamless for you as possible."

His words made her stomach flip. She swallowed and hugged herself. "That's sweet of you, Sherlock. Thank you."

"And I think you're going to be a wonderful mother." He whispered.

She smiled. "Yeah? Well I think you're going to be a great father. A weird one. But a good one."

He scoffed. "Me? Weird?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please, god knows what weird habits you and Mycroft will encourage."

Sherlock groaned. "Speaking of weird habits—We must discuss the cat."

Molly blinked. "Toby comes with me."

"Yes. I know. But I would like a dog."

Her mouth fell open. "You want a dog?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

"Is now really the right time?"

"It's the perfect time, actually. Most experts believe growing up with a pet is beneficial to a child's development. If I adopt a puppy now, it will be fully trained by the time the baby comes."

Molly groaned and dropped her head to her hands. "Unbelievable!"

He frowned. "Is it that big of a deal?"

"NO!" She groaned, before glaring at him, "Just every time I want to get angry at you, you say something ridiculously sweet! It's so unlike you!"

He blinked. "I'm… Sorry?"

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Don't be."

He swallowed and nodded. "Right. Affirmative on the dog. We should discuss your diet now. Specifically, your consumption of takeaway coffee, chocolate ice cream, and kebab."

That had her rolling her eyes.

"Piss off Sherlock."

 _Some things would never change._


	4. The First Month

Things had been different since Molly and Sherlock's very _business_ sex. They had rarely spoken to one another, sans an exchange of a few emails, since the confusing evening. Mrs. Hudson and the two had agreed on some needed changes to 221C, but that had been the extent of their communication for almost two weeks. But, with Molly at the lab, and Sherlock working on two concurrent cases, their separation was understandable.

Especially when time together let them both dwell on how _not_ business-like their sex had been.

But, on day fourteen, Sherlock found himself pacing his flat, his eyes locked on the calendar. Today would be Molly's predicted first day of her menses. So, as expected, he did nothing that day but check his mobile like a paranoid helicopter mum, having a heart attack every time he got a text from John instead of Molly.

He kept waiting and waiting and waiting for any contact from her, assuming she would let him know if her period started. Or, at least he hoped so. Their relationship had been… different since their journey to parenthood began.

Day fifteen came and went, with still no communication from Molly.

Sherlock spent his free time considering dog names.

By day sixteen, he simply couldn't eat—the waiting was too bloody nerve-wracking.

And then day seventeen came around. Molly finally rang him. He assumed the worst.

"It came, didn't it?" He asked, his voice slightly scandalized.

Molly sighed. "No. Not yet. I um…" He heard the shuffling in the background, "Well, I've purchased a test from Boots. I'll be over shortly."

When the line went dead, Sherlock set his mobile down and cleared his throat.

It was finally happening. The moment of truth. How did one prepare for such a moment?

 _I should make tea._

He turned to the kitchen and stopped, his newly learned knowledge bouncing around in his head.

 _No. Pregnant women should limit caffeine intake._

 _But what if she isn't pregnant?_

Instead of allowing himself to overthink things (as he normally did), he dropped to his seat and shut his eyes.

No matter what, things would change.

They already had.

-x-x-x-

Well, her arrival didn't exactly go smoothly—in Sherlock's nervous fiddling, he managed to deduce an incredible amount about his dear friend, going so far as to point out that she had gained two pounds from stress-eating over their agreement, had eaten (and spilled) a considerable amount of tomato soup on herself during lunch, and had _obviously_ stopped for a kebab on the way over.

Suffice to say, Molly (especially in her own stressed, nervous mood), didn't take too kindly to Sherlock's blistering remarks. She had managed a pretty brutal shove before ripping open the test box.

"Gods, sometimes I really just hate you!" She hissed out, as her eyes scanned over the directions on the box, "You know, most blokes would be comforting a woman right now, telling them that everything will be okay—that things will go as they're meant to!"

She let out a desperate laugh and moved towards the bathroom door. "But Sherlock Holmes? No! He needs to tell the bloody world that I fancied a kebab on the way over!"

Molly slammed the door shut, leaving Sherlock standing in the sitting room. He mumbled to himself and began pacing, wondering if he had really said anything _that_ wrong. Apparently, her nervous habit was eating—so be it!

Sherlock certainly couldn't help if his was deducing. If she didn't want to be deduced, she should have brought along some moral support! Certainly, John's bad knee and favorite takeaway lunch would have entertained Sherlock for hours.

After a few moments, Molly emerged from the bathroom, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She made eye contact with Sherlock, and immediately took a deep breath.

He cleared his throat. "How long?"

"Fifteen minutes."

Molly collapsed onto John's old chair and immediately began to nibble on her thumb nail. She brought her knees to her chest and stared forward, clearly lost in thought. Sherlock dropped to his chair and watched her.

"I'm… Sorry. I apologize if I upset you. I'm nervous and I deduce when I'm nervous."

She simply nodded instead of responding. He brought both his hands to his hair and ruffled the curls.

"How was work?" He found himself asking, desperately trying to break the uneasy silence in the room.

She glanced back at him. "It's alright. Mike hired a new specialist. A man called Jack."

"Is he a moron like Katrina was?"

Molly sighed and rubbed at her eyes. "I don't know. I only met him for a few moments. And Katrina was not a moron! You just didn't like that she didn't put up with you!"

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I see. And no sign of your period?"

She began to play with her hair. "No. It should have started Monday or Tuesday. And it's never late so…" She shifted in her seat, "I figured I might as well buy a test."

He nodded and glanced at the clock.

 _Eight minutes._

"I would offer takeaway but I'm sure that kebab filled you up."

Molly made a face. "You're really obsessed about me eating a bloody kebab, aren't you? What, did you fancy one and are mad I didn't grab one for you?"

He scoffed and stuck up his chin. "No. I was simply driving myself mad waiting to hear from you, and apparently you had enough time to grab a bloody kebab before contacting me!"

She sighed and dropped her head to her hands. After a few deep breaths, she glanced back to Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, alright? I realize I've been a bit off the radar but I just… I needed some time. And originally I was going to wait until the weekend to buy a test but I…"

He studied her. "But you were like me. You simply couldn't wait."

She nodded and took a shuddering breath. "I'm scared, Sherlock. What…" She swallowed and looked away, her knees bouncing up and down, "What if we succeeded? What if we're having a baby?"

He couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Then Mycroft is going to be one weird Uncle."

Thankfully, that got her to laugh.

The room descended into another silence, although this time more comfortable. The pair studied each other wordlessly, instead fidgeting and glancing at the clock every few seconds.

Finally, a loud dinging emitted from Molly's mobile. She immediately jumped to her feet and turned the alarm off. She spun on her heels and looked at Sherlock, who had also jumped to his feet at the noise. They stared at each other for a few moments.

"Sherlock…"

He swallowed. "Just look. Things will work out the way they should."

She nodded before disappearing into the bathroom. Sherlock began to pace the room, the biscuits he had eaten earlier rising in his stomach, threatening to escape with every breath he took. And after what seemed like weeks but was only approximately thirty seconds, Molly emerged from the bathroom, her eyes locked on a plastic stick.

Their eyes met.

Blue on brown.

And her lips twitched into the biggest smile he ever had the privilege to see.

An unfamiliar force took over his body, striking every nerve on fire. He rushed towards her and pulled her into his arms, immediately wrapping them around her small frame. She let out a yelp of surprise but began to laugh, joining his hug the best she could at her height.

"We're having a child?" He found himself asking, surprised that he was even capable of words.

Molly let out a half laugh, half sob. "Yeah," She blew out shakily, "We're having a baby."

Sherlock didn't think he had been happier in his life.

And before he could dwell on the news, the two became conscious of their embrace, and immediately separated.

-x-x-x-

John choked on his mouthful of kebab. "She's pregnant?"

The doctor and Sherlock were wandering about the city, having just finished a brief meeting with Lestrade. Only a day had passed since Molly's test, and she had gone to work the following morning to give herself another test in the lab.

 _My Molly. Always so thorough._

And thankfully, the result had again been positive, giving Sherlock a pep in his step that he couldn't recall having before. Things would all be moving to plan—in fact, Molly only had three weeks left on her lease, meaning she'd be moving to Baker Street within the month.

He couldn't recall being so content.

But, since life moved on, Sherlock and John had finished their catch-up meeting and had stopped for lunch. Sherlock was fancying a kebab, especially after all of Molly's whining about it, and John was certainly never one to turn down food.

"Yes. Did you forget our conversations about Molly and I having a baby together?" Sherlock asked, before taking a bite of his own food, always more composed than John's sloppy mess.

His best mate wiped his mouth and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I remember. I just didn't expect it to come about so quickly!"

Sherlock shrugged. "We made a decision and got right to it."

John glanced at Sherlock and then away. He cleared his throat and nodded. Sherlock, however, noticed how peculiar the man was being. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh. I see. You want to know how the baby was conceived but are too bashful to ask."

John again choked on his kebab. "Sherlock! I'm not interested in how Molly got pregnant."

Sherlock smirked. "Liar."

The two met each other's gazes. John cursed and looked away.

"Alright, fine. I really gotta know. Did you…" He moved his shoulders forward, rotating them up and down, "You know…" He continued his shoulder movements, "Get it on?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and replicated the shoulder movements. "John, if this is how you 'get it on', I hardly see how you've had so many girlfriends over the years."

The doctor tossed his takeaway container into a bin and scowled. "I'll ignore that. So. Artificial insemination I reckon?"

The detective followed suit before turning to John. "Nope," He replied, popping his 'p' with vigor, "We had intercourse."

While John certainly knew it was a possibility, he couldn't believe it upon hearing it from Sherlock's lips. He stopped walking.

"Hold on. You're telling me that you and Molly shagged?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. We did."

John ran his hand down his mouth, now resting it under his chin. "I don't understand. How could—"

"Oh, spare me your diatribe about thinking I'm incapable of having sex! I've been having sex much longer than you John—I happened to lose my virginity when I was fourteen—that's a far cry from your eighteen!"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, his movements resembling that of a fish. "You lost your virginity at fourteen?"

"Mhm. Long story. Was conducting an experiment. But that's not the point."

"You can't say something like that and expect me not to inquire!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "To answer your previous inquiry, yes, Molly and I had sex. However, she was insistent on us not being intimate."

John began to rub at his temples. "I don't—How do you—I'm so confused—"

"She insisted on no kissing and no foreplay. We agreed not to get naked. Everything was done under blankets, completely in missionary."

John blinked. "Christ. And how was that?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, I enjoyed it. I made sure she enjoyed it." He began to walk again, "Although she very kindly informed me that she rarely orgasmed during sex. So, I made sure to change that."

"You…." John raced after Sherlock, desperately trying not to laugh, "So, you and Molly had sex without kissing, without foreplay, with clothes on, and entirely under the blankets?"

Sherlock glared. "Correct."

"And that was her requirement?"

"Correct."

"But you would have done things different?"

"Correct."

"But you still claim you don't have feelings for her?"

Sherlock glared.

"Correct."

"Sherlock, I think—"

The curly-haired man glanced at his mobile before back to John. "Hold that thought. I need to go." He stuffed the device back into his pocket and turned to the shorter man, "I will be adopting a dog on Sunday. Please arrive at Baker Street no later than 11. Rosie and Alfie are encouraged to join."

John blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock grinned. "Au revoir!"

He was gone before John could even yell his name.

-x-x-x-

Saturday came around, giving Sherlock and Molly a chance to sit down and really absorb the reality of their current situation.

They were having a baby together.

The news was still hard for either of them to believe, much less for them to tell those around them. Molly had only informed her best friend Meena, and Sherlock had of course told John. But, given Mrs. Hudson's wandering in and out of his flat, the old woman was quick to find the discarded pregnancy test and conclude the news.

But, the pair had yet to inform their families—Sherlock wanted to wait to tell his parents until he absolutely needed to, and Molly was keen to inform her brother when she visited him in a few weeks' time. And, of course, Sherlock figured he'd inform Mycroft within the following weeks.

As expected, the elusive man didn't give him the chance.

That predictable behavior (which frankly Sherlock loathed) explained why Mycroft showed up at Baker Street on Saturday morning, looking ridiculous with a balloon in his hands, the shiny material decorated with the image of a stork carrying a baby-filled sack.

"I offer my sincerest congratulations," Mycroft announced as he handed an irritated Sherlock the balloon, "I simply had to drop by when I learned the news."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tied the balloon to a chair. He turned to Mycroft. "And how exactly did you learn of the news?"

The prat smirked. "Must I divulge all of my secrets?"

Molly strolled into the entryway from the kitchen and glanced between the men. "Oh, hello Mycroft. I didn't know you were stopping by."

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and dropped to his favorite chair. "Nor did I, Molly."

She smiled at Mycroft. "Tea?"

It didn't take long for the trio to get comfortable, sitting over Molly's homemade biscuits and a pot of tea. She happened to quite enjoy Mycroft's balloon, especially when he teased that a young Sherlock used to get excited at the sight of any white birds—the little boy had ever been hopeful for a younger sibling.

Until he got one and things got…messy. But that was another story for another time.

At any rate, Mycroft was regaling a giggling Molly with stories of a young Sherlock, leaving the detective to groan and twist uncomfortably in his chair. And given the excellent quality of Molly's biscuits and Mycroft's penchant for sweets, Sherlock knew there would be no getting rid of the man.

But, after a story about a three-year old Sherlock pooping in the family fireplace, the man was quite ready for the visit to end. So, he obnoxiously cleared his throat.

"Well, Mycroft, your visit has been delightful. I assume you have more important things to attend to. I'm sure there's a lovely sex scandal you need to cover up," Sherlock suggested, jumping to his feet, "Molly and I have much to discuss."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and grabbed another biscuit. "Very well. But you and I have much to discuss too, Sherlock."

He looked bored. "Oh? Can't schooling wait?"

"Not only schooling. I will not have your pregnant…" He glanced at Molly, struggling to find the right word, "Lady friend walking around without protection. She'll need some sort of security detail."

Molly laughed and looked to Mycroft. "You can't be serious. A security detail?"

Mycroft dusted a few crumbs from his trousers and rose to his feet. "I'm very serious, Dr. Hooper. My brother has a tendency of inviting the attraction of very dangerous, very unsavory characters."

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes. I just have an ongoing email chain. I'm delighted whenever someone RSVPs."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, "I am simply concerned about Molly and the baby's safety."

 _Oh. The baby. That's new._

Molly smiled softly and touched Mycroft's arm. "We can discuss it. You can come over for tea another time. I'll make my famous madeira cake."

Mycroft swallowed, his eyes brightening at her words, "Oh. Yes. That would work perfectly."

"Yes, yes, you lot can discuss your tea party another time!" Sherlock groaned out, before stomping to the door. He whipped it open and looked to Mycroft. "We will chat later."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and offered Molly a polite goodbye. He moved to the doorway but stopped, looking directly into his brother's irritated gaze.

"I need your assistance. I will be texting you."

Sherlock began to tap his fingers against the door hinge, irritation spreading across his features. "I only accept six and higher."

"It's an eight."

"Then I'll be waiting."

The brothers shared a poignant look before Mycroft disappeared from the flat. Sherlock shut the door and let out a groan as he moved back to the sitting room. Molly was cleaning up the discarded dishes but stopped to give Sherlock a look.

And females had never been Sherlock's forte. Well, frankly, people hadn't been either. So, he struggled to recognize her look, sans the narrowing of her eyes and the sharp purse of her lips.

He stood up straight. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Molly sighed and set the tray down. "Why do you do that?" She asked, studying the man, "Whenever you're with Mycroft, you're so short with him."

Sherlock scoffed. "I am not. I invited him inside for tea, did I not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your brother showed up, excited about a big moment in your life and you're such a git that you wouldn't even speak to him like a normal human being!"

He crossed his arms. "I resent that. What was I supposed to do?"

"Hmm, well, there's always treating him like your brother!" She retorted, before grabbing the tray and moving to the kitchen.

Sherlock followed her, irritation painted across his features. "I always treat him—"

She groaned and turned to face him, her back digging into the kitchen sink. "Sherlock, look," She began, her voice soft, "I would kill for Adam to live closer to me. And with my parents gone, he's all I have."

Molly rubbed at her eyes, a sadness capturing her features like a storm cloud, "One day, Mycroft might be the only piece of your family left. I just…" She sniffled and shook her head, "He cares about you. Why can't you show him the same commitment?"

Sherlock looked away. "Fine. I will try to be more… Open with Mycroft." He cleared his throat and rubbed at his neck, "However, he will never be my only family. Not with a baby on the way."

She couldn't help but flush at the thought. "Of course. But you know what I meant."

He nodded and began to shift on his heels, studying her. He coughed and looked away. "Right. Shall I order takeaway?

With a smile and a nod from Molly, Sherlock shuffled out of the room, his body filled with a warm and fuzzy feeling he wasn't used to.

It remained the rest of the day, only disappearing when Molly returned to her own flat.

-x-x-x-

The following day, John, Alfie, and Rosie dropped by the flat, clad in their best winter gear. Rosie wouldn't stop chattering about dogs (just as she hadn't when Sherlock babysat her), and Alfie had his face buried in mobile, watching a live stream of a Spanish football match.

John glanced around the flat and pointed to the balloon. "Interesting decoration."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tied his scarf. "A gift from Mycroft."

The shorter man snorted. "That's…cute."

"Mhm." Sherlock strolled towards the doorway but stopped to look at the kids. "Will you lot help me name the dog?"

Alfie simply made a noise of acknowledgment, his eyes still glued to the screen. Rosie, however, let out a scream.

"I help name!" She bellowed, before shoving her plush dog in Sherlock's face, "Pway!"

He smiled and nodded. "Yes. You can play with him, but first we must pick him up."

The four moved out of the flat, John struggling to keep Rosie focused on moving forward, and the trio constantly having to stop to make sure Alfie hadn't been absorbed into the London crowd, face still glued to mobile and all.

"Where'd you find the dog? What type is it?" John asked, the group now only merely blocks from their desired location. He had given up trying to guide Rosie and was instead holding the little girl.

"Lestrade, actually. His brother's dog just had puppies and I overheard him trying to calm down his daughter during a call. She wanted one of the puppies and he said no." He scoffed and continued walking, "How rude to reject a child's desire for a pet. Animals are normally more tolerable than humans."

John rolled his eyes. "Believe me, Sherlock, you'll understand Greg once the baby arrives. Kids are hard. Animals are hard. You're going to reach a point when all either will do is make noise, eat, and shit."

Sherlock glared at John. "Incorrect. My dog will be adequately trained and accompany me on cases. And, as for my child, it will be of superior intelligence, so that period will end quickly."

The doctor rolled his eyes and stopped in front of the home. "Well, this looks to be it."

And within five minutes, Sherlock emerged from the house, a German Shepherd puppy tucked into his arms. Alfie finally glanced away from his mobile, and with Rosie, let out gasps and 'aws' of pure childhood fascination. Sherlock grinned at John.

"Isn't he perfect? German shepherds are one of the smartest dog breeds. Lestrade was an idiot not to take one of the puppies."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile at the sight. "He is cute. What will you call him?"

Sherlock sighed and began to walk. "Well, that's the problem. I've yet to figure that bit out yet. I asked Molly before she left with Meena, and she wasn't terribly helpful. I wanted something pirate-like. Blackbeard. Redbeard. You know."

"Pirate? Why—"

Alfie's voice cut them off. "Sparrow!" He declared, a grin across his features, "Like Jack Sparrow. The pirate."

John nodded. "Oh, yeah. That's a nice name."

"Jack Sparrow? I've never heard of such a pirate."

"Oh, come on Sherlock. You know, from the Pirate movies? Johnny Depp?"

The detective blinked. "Johnny who?"

John sighed. "You like the name or not?"

Sherlock glanced at the dog in his arms, unable to hold back a smile at the sight of the animal's big grin and loving brown eyes. He gulped.

"Yes. Sparrow. That will do."

-x-x-x-

A few hours later, they were back at Baker Street, enjoying the heat of the flat. Rosie was asleep on the sofa, tucked under a frilly, colorful blanket that Molly had left. Alfie was sitting at the kitchen table, ear buds in, watching more football footage. Although, based on Sherlock's time standing over the child, Alfie appeared to be on YouTube, watching videos of players getting hit in the face with balls.

Perhaps he would never understand children.

But, delighted with some silence, Sherlock sat in his chair, watching Sparrow wander around the space, sniffling every inch of the floor. They had briefly stopped at a pet shop, picking up some of the necessities. After their long day, Sherlock had expected John to already be knocked out in his old chair.

However, his best mate was watching him carefully, a nervous air filling the space. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You appear to be nervous," Sherlock pointed out, breaking the silence, "Why?"

John sighed and rubbed at his face. He glanced around to look at Alfie, to ensure the boy was still distracted, before turning back to Sherlock. He bit his lip.

"I want to tell you something. I haven't actually said it aloud, yet."

Sherlock yawned. "I'm waiting."

John rubbed the back of his neck before taking a deep breath. "Well, I've decided to ask Lydia to marry me."

The detective studied his best friend, surprised by his words. But, frankly, he shouldn't have been—the two had been together for almost a year and seemed to be rather serious. And most importantly, the two seemed happy.

John looked happier than he had been for a long while.

But the thought of John remarrying filled Sherlock with a grief that he had tried to bury. A grief that he thought he had moved past.

 _Mary._

He shifted in his seat and met John's gaze, noticing how tense his best friend had become. He swallowed. "I see. You have?"

John smiled softly and nodded. "Next week is our one-year anniversary and I…" He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair, "I dunno. She makes me so happy. She understands me."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "That's a big step. Marriage." He glanced over at Alfie, who was laughing hysterically at a clip of a footballer running into a goal post, "Another child."

"I'm ready. I love her."

"Then I'm happy for you, John. I like Lydia. I like Alfie."

John took a deep breath and nodded, a big smile spreading across his features, "Yeah. I'm going to ask her to marry me."

Rosie began to fuss about being hungry, and John immediately went to fetch her a snack, leaving Sherlock to consider their short, albeit important conversation. And now, all Sherlock could think about was John and Mary's wedding.

Never in his life would he have imagined being someone's best man, let alone for a wedding of two people he cared greatly about. Thinking of Mary always upset him and forced him to consider his behavior during a very dark place in his life. And that darkness led to more, much worse, much deadlier darkness…

He sighed and brought both hands to his hair, giving the curls a tug. He got glimpses of their wedding—Janine in that awful lavender. The fishy shrimp. Molly in that yellow dress, being tugged onto the dance floor by her fiancé.

 _Ex-Fiancé._

Would she bring a date to John and Lydia's wedding?

The thought iced the blood running through his veins.

But before he could dwell on his reaction to the thought, Alfie was screaming about Sparrow. He glanced over to the little boy.

 _Ah, yes._

The puppy had decided to relieve himself on Alfie's trainers.

 _I suppose I should start training him._

-x-x-x-

 _ **The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**_

 _ **Date: March 6, 2019**_

 _ **A Baby for Baker Street – IV**_

 _ **It's like the bloody Twilight Zone here. They shagged! They actually had sex—and she's already knocked up! It's unbelievable—though perhaps not as unbelievable as Sherlock claiming to have lost his virginity at 14. That needs a follow-up. The git can't possibly say that and not give any details.**_

 _ **And then he goes and adopts a dog. When I met Sherlock, he claimed not to have any friends. Now, he's expecting a child and training a puppy!**_

 _ **I don't know if I'm more proud or amused.**_

-x-x-x-

As Mycroft promised, Sherlock received instructions on Monday morning pertaining to an eight. He had been given scant details but knew he would be heading to Edinburgh and would at least be gone until Thursday. Mrs. Hudson had been delighted when he showed up at her door, Sparrow tucked into his arms. Of course, her excitement wore off when Sherlock shared that the dog had yet to be trained.

 _I can't help the instability of my schedule!_

At any rate, he would pass the hospital on his way to meet Mycroft as it was, so he decided to tell Molly in person about his departure. As he strolled down the hallways, he breathed in the stale hospital air like it was the sweetest fragrance in the world. It reminded him of exciting cases, groundbreaking research, and seeing Molly.

 _Molly._

He cleared his throat and entered the lab, his coat billowing behind him. However, he froze at the sight of Molly sitting at her desk, laughing over coffee with an unfamiliar man, who was clad in a white lab coat and a Bart's badge.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Molly."

She noticed him and jumped up. "Sherlock! Hello. What are you doing here?"

He glanced back at the unknown man.

 _Expensive shoes, fresh haircut. Comes from money. Born and raised in London. Single._

Sherlock looked back to Molly. "Who's this?" He asked instead of responding to her question.

She cleared her throat and smiled at the unknown man before looking back to Sherlock. "Well, this is Jack Maloney. Our new specialist. He started last week." She bit her lip and looked back to Jack, "And Jack, this is Sherlock Holmes. A…" She fidgeted, "Friend of mine."

Jack looked between Sherlock and Molly. He gasped. "Sherlock Holmes? You mean the famous detective from the telly?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Well, I hardly think my career should be defined by my appearances on television."

The specialist let out a nervous laugh and nodded. "Right, well uh, pleasure to meet you! Always happy to meet one of Molly's friends." He glanced at the woman beside him and grinned, "She's making me feel at home here."

"Oh. Yes. One of Molly's…" Sherlock looked at the women and tilted his head, studying her, "Friends. Very good friends."

Molly coughed and crossed her arms. "Is there a reason you stopped by, Sherlock?"

He made a humming noise. "I have a case. I'll be gone at least for a couple of days."

She sighed and nodded. "Be careful. Keep me updated."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Jack.

"A case? That sounds fun! What exactly do you do? Is your job like Cluedo?" The specialist asked, taking a sip of his coffee, "I reckon that would be fun."

The coffee looked familiar. It was nothing extraordinary—one of the hospital's standard paper cups, wrapped in a brown sleeve. But along the edge, scribbled in colorful sharpie, was the lovely scrawl of Molly. The same scrawl from Alfie's poster.

And just as Alfie's poster had been heartfelt, so too was her message to Jack.

 _Jack : ) Here's to hoping you warm up to Bart's like this coffee warms your hand! – Molly xxx_

Sherlock moved his gaze from the coffee cup to Jack, his face in a scowl. His tone was clipped. "Do you now? You think solving murders and stopping embezzling schemes is fun?" He spat out, his voice filled with disgust, "I'll make sure to tell the families of any of the victims of the last serial killer I stopped that the new St. Bart's specialist Jack thinks their misery equates to the fun of a board game!"

Jack swallowed. "Oh, hey mate, I didn't mean it like—"

"Sure, sure, give me loads of reasons more not to respect you. As if your online gambling habits and gym addiction weren't bad enough."

"Sherlock!" Molly shouted, her eyes sad, "You need to go."

He glared at Molly and stuck his chin up. "Very well. Although, Molly, anything you explain to him will need to be explained again. He's going to prolong your time together in an ill-fated attempt at flirting."

Molly moved to the man and literally shoved him. "Out. Get out."

Sherlock growled and spun on his heels, his coat billowing behind him as he stormed out of the lab.

He refused to acknowledge why he felt so sick inside.

-x-x-x-

Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was the weather. Mycroft's instructions. The steep, hilly inclines of the city. The shoes he was wearing.

There was a logical reason for what occurred in Edinburgh that certainly had nothing to do with his personal life.

Mycroft was wrong.

He was not _distracted_.

But his brother rarely agreed with him.

"Just a truly, pathetic display," Mycroft droned on, continuing his lengthy diatribe that had begun the minute Sherlock had wrapped up the case, "You're lucky you emerged with just some bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder. You weren't playing tag with a child. That was a brilliant criminal, Sherlock."

The curly-haired detective focused on the moving streets outside of the car window, desperately trying to drown out Mycroft's infuriating voice. He was repeating the same lecture, albeit trying to mix up his words and get creative with the threats and chastising.

So, yes, the case hadn't gone perfectly. Sherlock had been tracking a very dangerous, London-based killer who was set to make a drug pick up with a few of his men in Edinburgh. Naturally, with Mycroft's case file, Sherlock had prepped a brilliant plan of attack, including passing himself off as an Irish drug dealer looking to break into the Scottish market.

However, he found his mind wandering for the entirety of the case. While tailing suspects, he'd start thinking of London. And a baby. And Sparrow. And Molly. And then he'd remember that he was meant to stay hidden, stopping his movements in the nick of time.

And those failures expanded far past trailing. He lost two suspects he was following on the first day. He missed a cue from Mycroft because he was assisting an old woman. He forgot to load his gun on the second day.

But these transgressions were passable. His credibility survived. That was until the previous day, while during the drug bust, the men began to discuss their kids. Realizing that criminals were also human beings was always slightly alarming for Sherlock—the thought of a man killing an innocent person and then going home to read his child a bedroom story was always unsettling.

Yet, their discussion of their wives and kids at home had Sherlock incredibly unbalanced. So much so that when he was spoken to, he found himself responding in his rich timber of a voice, his English accent very much detectable on a man who was presenting himself as Cillian O'Donoghue of Cork.

Suffice to say he found himself fighting off four men, coming out of the row with bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Thankfully, his gun that day _had_ been loaded, and with Mycroft and the Scottish police around the corner, everything worked out.

Sherlock's recorded conversations with the men had been enough to lock them up. And as soon as the cell was shut, Sherlock was taken back to London, nursing some nasty purple bruises, and an arm in a sling.

And putting up with Mycroft's endless chatter.

"Foolish, just absolutely foolish! You claim to be a master of disguise and you can't even maintain a simple accent?" Mycroft scoffed and turned in his seat, "If you intend to continue your consulting detective work, Sherlock, you cannot have your head up your arse."

Sherlock shook his head and continued staring. "I have no excuse for what happened."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his face. "You must stay focused. You have even more to go home to now. A dog, a baby… A woman."

He flinched. "I do not have a woman to go home to. Molly and I are nothing more than friends in an arrangement."

By the time they circled back around to Baker Street, the brothers had returned to a pregnant silence. As Sherlock gathered his belongings, Mycroft studied the man.

"I rang Molly to let her know you had been injured."

Sherlock froze. "Injured? Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine."

Mycroft made a noise deep within his throat. "Doctors would say otherwise. While as insignificant as your injuries may be, the mother of your unborn child deserves to know."

 _The mother of my unborn child._

The detective let out a shaky breath. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock exited the car and watched the black vehicle drive away, the tormenting words of his brother running through his head. He assured himself that he would simply have a cup of tea, get some sleep, and be back to his normal self within twenty-four hours.

But, things were never simple for Sherlock.

He was reminded of that as soon as he entered the flat and met the angry brown gaze of Molly Hooper. She was sitting in his chair, her feet tucked under her bum, Sparrow comfortably snoozing in her lap. When their eyes met, Sherlock quite literally flinched.

Her anger was palpable.

Setting his bag down, he tentatively slipped out of his jacket, aware of her dark gaze on him. Once he had slipped out of his shoes, he cleared his throat and turned to face her.

"Hello, Molly. I see you picked up Sparrow from Mrs. Hudson." He began, his voice cautious, "He seems to like you."

Molly began to pet the sleeping dog's fur. "Yes. He likes me. The poor dog was abandoned by his owner only days after being adopted. Isn't that sad?"

Sherlock frowned. "That's not fair. I can't help—"

"Right. Sherlock Holmes is never responsible for his actions." She shook her head, her voice growing hoarse, "You can't just adopt a puppy and disappear for days! He's still shitting on the carpet!"

He cursed. "Yes, I'm aware the timing was awful—"

"You leave an old woman with a bad hip to pick up his shit? You think that's fair, Sherlock?"

"Now wait just a minute—"

"He barely even knows your voice and then you're gone—"

"Molly—"

"I can't believe you'd just—"

"MOLLY!"

She stopped speaking and shook her head. Sherlock growled.

"This isn't about Sparrow so don't make it about him. I realize my absence was at an inopportune time. I would have preferred to be here, training and bonding with him. But that wasn't an option. Sparrow aside, this isn't why you're upset," He explained, his voice wavering as he watched the woman, "But frankly I think your response is unwarranted."

That had her fuming. Although her face was furious, she slowly rose to her feet and set the sleeping dog on the chair before storming towards Sherlock.

"Unwarranted?" She cried out, her voice ragged, "Do you have any idea what I was feeling when Mycroft called?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, well, I wish he wouldn't have told—"

"Dammit Sherlock!" She screamed, interrupting him, "You just don't get it!"

He stood rigidly still, staring at the woman, surprised by her tone. He rarely saw Molly mad.

Except for when he was using.

But this was different.

 _Isn't it?_

"This isn't just about us anymore! When Mycroft's name came across my screen, I almost vomited, because I assumed you and your recklessness had gotten yourself killed! That our unborn child would never get to meet its father!" She hugged herself and shook her head, her eyes watering in frustration, "This was exactly why I was hesitant to say yes. I knew you weren't going to change your ways."

She dropped back into John's chair, her face buried in her hands. "And now it's too late."

Sherlock ran a shaky hand through his hair and cursed. "Molly, my career is taking cases. Solving mysteries. Taking out criminals and helping those who can't help themselves. Murder victims. Those who have been abused. I cannot and will not stop my work, even with a child on the way."

He swallowed and took tentative steps towards her, "I will, however, be more cautious with the cases I take and the situations I put myself in. I rarely get hurt. This will not happen again."

Molly sniffled and shook her head. "You don't know that, Sherlock. You can't know that."

"I'm about as likely to get hurt on a case as either of us are getting hit by a bus. You must trust me."

Molly stared at him, her eyes sad. He swallowed.

"I see. You don't."

She looked away. "I just find myself in this eternal battle, Sherlock, wondering if I'm going to get Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde." She brought her knees to her chest and shook her head, "Sometimes you'll read pregnancy books, and adopt a dog, and make Alfie a sign for his football match, and tell me how desperately you want to be a father."

She shifted and wiped a few warm tears from her face. "Yet, other times, you're a prat to Mycroft, someone who goes above and beyond to support you. You do careless things like hurt yourself on a case or leave a puppy with an old woman. And oh, I don't know, insult my new co-worker after interacting with him for not even a minute!"

She met his gaze and took a deep breath. "I am constantly in awe of the man you are Sherlock. But I am equally as delighted by your behavior as I am mortified. I'm going to be a mother. You're going to be a father."

Her gaze was intense. Absolutely riveting.

"Be the man your child will need you to be."

And then she was gone, leaving only the scent of her vanilla perfume as proof of her visit.

He picked Sparrow up with his uninjured arm and dropped to his chair, immediately shutting his eyes.

Was his desire to have a baby purely selfish? Had he even considered what the child would go through, growing up with a father like him?

He felt sick to his stomach. He had managed to let Mycroft down. Molly down. Even little Sparrow, sleeping happily in his lap, down.

 _And a child who has yet to meet the world._

He let out a shuttering breath.

He was nowhere near ready for this journey.

 _And now it's too late._

 _There is no turning back._

 _The game is on._


End file.
